


Estranged Blood

by ElnaK



Category: Kingdom of Heaven (2005), Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Troy (2004), Zulu (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Everybody Lives, F/M, Gen, One actor Several characters, So many tags..., except those who die, future!Will, oh well, undead/immortal!Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:39:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 100,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElnaK/pseuds/ElnaK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a secret, but Thranduil and his wife Aeweryn didn't have one son, but quintuplets. The only thing being that four never lived in their elven bodies. They came to life in a distant future, as mortals. Until the day, mere weeks before Aragorn brings Gollum to Mirkwood, when Legolas is taken by orcs, and the impossible happens. Legolas, Will, Brian, Balian and Paris will finally meet... with some others acquaintances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling apart

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the story that I should definitely not be writing, for two reasons: it proves I'm crazy, and I have already three stories I'm writing at the same time. So for this one, I will update like, at least once every two months? I can't promise better, but at least, the chapters are longer than anything I did before!
> 
> Oh yeah, and English is still not my mother tongue. And sometimes, there are those terrible things that aren't even mistakes, but rather typos. I do my best, but I don't have a Beta ( and I'm sure having one would be worse because I have a horrible personality ).
> 
> By the way, if something is in italic and between inverted comas, then it means it's not Westron/english ( that I assume are the same for the sake of convenience ), but in sindarin, french, greek, et caetera. Actually, the french will be in french, since, you know, I'm french...
> 
> Oh, and yes, I made greek gods into Valar. So Chronos, who is the god of time and doom, and Hades, who is the god of death, are Mandos and Mandos only, who is the Vala of death and doom. And yes, the part about Will being a descendant of Chronos comes from another fic of mine, and isn't canon.

 

_The Elvenking of the Woodland Realm was standing alone in a large cave of the Halls. His face was of ice, but the illusion had fallen off. The burns were visible. Yet the blind eye was staring at the bed before the elf, even though it couldn't see, even if it was no use._

_Thranduil, son of Oropher, was standing before a bed where his wife laid, lifeless. Aeweryn was as beautiful as ever, and she seemed to be sleeping, but her eyes were closed. The smile on her lips was weak. She was not breathing anymore._

_The Queen of the Woodland Realm was gone._

_The Kind slowly turned on his heels, and was faced with a view even worse._

_Four beds of stone were between him and the exit. On each of them slept an elfling. Babies, actually. Short brown hair, almost black. Fair skin, but that was a given, after all, they were elves._

_They had their eyes closed._

_All of them._

_The four of them._

_Thranduil caught his left wrist with his right hand, and started twisting it so badly the skin was white and his bones creaked. But the Elvenking didn't seem to care. He looked over the lifeless bodies, and all he could see was his failure._

_Behind him, his dead wife._

_Before him, children who had never lived._

 

_A child sneaked past two guards and pushed a double door open. Behind him, the guards were busy with a berating Elvenking in an awful mood. None of them had seen the elfling pass by._

_The door opened silently, and the child peered inside._

_A hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back in the corridor. The door closed with an ominous and sharp sound. Thranduil looked the child in the eyes. His burns were apparent._

_The King of the Woodland Realm was furious._

_Both he and the elfling had blond hair and blue eyes._

 

_Thranduil turned away from the empty deathbed of Aeweryn._

_His eyes immediately fell on the still forms of four teenage elves. They had dark brown hair, quite wavy, which was rare amongst elves. Their faces were exactly similar._

_Their eyes were closed._

 

_On a great ship, a handsome young man was stabbed in the heart with a thin sword. The rain rolled down his surprised face, and his brown eyes were wide open. The battle was loud._

 

_A knife tore open the young man's chest._

 

_A chest with a heart inside, but a chest that wasn't a man's chest. A chest that was a box, and that held a beating heart. A chest that was given by the young man to a beautiful young woman._

_The young man had a great scar upon his chest, where his heart should have been._

 

_Thranduil's fist collided with the stone of a large basin, that had replaced the deathbed of Aeweryn, Elvenqueen of Greenwood the Great. The lifeless elves upon the stone beds were adults, now. They hadn't moved an inch._

_The Elvenking's face was desperate._

 

_A man who looked much like the one from the ship, though his hair was shorter, and he wore strange clothes. He was a bit older, too. He was running to a group of people on a beach. One of them was laying on the sand, screaming. His hand wasn't at the end of his arm anymore._

_Then the screaming stopped._

_The first man had joined the two who had not fled._

_The injured man's throat was bleeding heavily._

_Another man was there, and his skin was dark, and he was bleeding too, his ear having been injured._

 

_The man who looked like the one from the ship was standing over the dark-skinned man, sitting against a dead tree in a desert. The dark-skinned man wasn't breathing._

_The white man wasn't so white anymore. He had ecchymosis, bruises and blood everywhere on his face. His eyes were sad, and still, he didn't look hurt. There was no despair in his eyes, as if despair was something he was used to and no longer had a hold upon his soul._

 

_The King of the Woodland Realm sat and thought. His seat was facing the basin, turning its back away from the four still figures laying on beds of stone._

_He wasn't talking._

_He had nothing to say._

_And no one to talk to. None of the four elves had woken up from their lifeless slumber._

 

_A young man who looked much like the two from before, though his hair was straighter, was holding a baby in his arms._

_But the baby wasn't breathing anymore._

 

_The young man looked up._

_There was a woman in a tree._

_There was a woman hanging from the tree._

 

_The young man pushed another man in the fire._

_When he opened his hand again, a cross had left its mark in his flesh and skin._

 

_The man looked over a town of heat and sand. Behind the walls, an army had gathered._

_People would die this day._

 

_Thranduil sat next to the basin, and his face reflected no emotions. He had let go of too many, he had none left to show, or a least it seemed to be that way._

_The four elves behind him hadn't moved. Their hair had grown over the centuries, and the Elvenking had gotten them clothes the right size, but they hadn't moved._

 

_A man younger than the three from before, but who obviously shared their face too, watched as war happened on the beach of his city. He was a bit darker of skin than the others, but the place he lived seemed hotter._

 

_A man died in a duel, and the young man cried._

 

_The city was burning and people were running everywhere._

_The young man aimed his arrow at the one who had killed the other man. He shot him twice in the vitals, and yet the warrior wouldn't fall. He shot one last time, and his arrow went to the warrior's heel, who fell to the ground, exhausted, and died._

_A young woman cried and sent dark looks at the young man. He ignored her anger, and directed her to the exit._

 

_The Elvenking was digging his fingers into his neck, and blood was drawn._

_Thranduil ignored it._

_He took a deep breath, wiped the blood clean, and left the room. The two guards in the corridor stiffened in his passage. They could see the scratched skin and the wiped blood. But they said nothing. Their king's face told them they'd better keep quiet._

_An elf was waiting for the king, not far away from the room. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and yet the exact same face as all the men from before._

 

_The cave with the basin and the unconscious elves was devoid of any presence._

_The lifeless bodies looked like eah other, and like the elf from the corridor, and like the men from before. They had the exact same features as each other. And each one of them was even more similar to one man in particular._

_The one on the far left had wavy hair like the man in the desert, though they were much longer. His face was heavily bruised._

_The one on his right was a bit more tan than the others, like the man from the burning city. His wavy dark hair had been cut at just the same length._

_The one on the far right had a large scar upon his heart, and an iron chest placed next to him. His hair were, surprisingly for an elf, as unruly as the man on the ship's._

_The one on his left had the scar of a burning cross in the palm of his hand. His dark hair were longer than the man's from the assieged city, but they were still more disciplined than those of the other elves, and so couldn't be mistaken._

_The only differences were that as elves, those four weren't bearded, while three of their human counterparts wore a short beard. But all in all, they still were the same._

 

_A blond elf was captive, between the hands of orcs, and into an underground hideout._

 

_There was no light._

 

 

**TA, 1127**

 

**Imladris**

**Elrond's quarters**

 

Elrond woke up with a start.

It took the good part of a minute for the Lord of Imladris to breath normally again. Dread was in his heart, and Fear upon his dreams, it seemed, for he had never before been this disturbed by a nightmare. But had it been a nightmare?

If this was a vision, would it be less of a nightmare?

It certainly seemed to be a nightmare for Thranduil.

The Half-elven lord couldn't say he knew much of what this vision meant, if it even was one, but he was certain of one thing: never before had he experienced such a direct vision. His dreams were usually cryptic. This one...

This one felt like shreads of reality. Moments. With no hidden significance. Truths.

Elrond sat up slowly in his bed, and held his head between his hands.

If he couldn't understand what it all meant, it was only because he had caught glimpses of the future, and no conversation, no actual background story. Still, the Lord of Imladris was far from stupid, and he had some ideas of what had been going on.

Aeweryn, dead. His heart ached, for the cause of her death had been obvious. The elleth had been fading until nothing was left of her life force.

Why?

Thranduil was alive. Her husband was alive. The blond elfling could only be their son, and he was alive. So why had she lost all will to live?

The four beds of stone.

Somehow, inexplicably, Aeweryn had had not one son, but five. As Celebrian had birthed twins, as Elrond's own mother had given birth to him and o Elros, Aeweryn would give birth to more than one child. If this vision came to be, Aeweryn would be the mother of quintuplets. Which in itself was unheard of amongst elves, and rare amongst mortals.

Yet, the five elves had the same face, even if not the same coloring. They had the faces of men from another time, another world maybe. Not even from the same times and worlds, it seemed.

Thoses men had the most chaotic lives, if what the Lord of Imladris had seen in those brief moments was right. He had seen their eyes, and he had seen their sorrow. He had recognized their youth, and yet he had found something amiss.

The youngest one had been carefree enough for a time, but it hadn't lasted. Elrond had seen the guilt in the man's eyes. And he had seen the craving for something more, something a mortal's life couldn't give him. Craving for beauty, harmony, perfection, cleverness. Time. And a life that couldn't give him what he needed. Maybe this craving had caused this guilt.

Then there was the killed man on the great ship. Never before Elrond had seen such a big ship, and let's not talk about the sea-altered monsters fighting in the background. The young man was what was important. Because yes, he was young, but he seemed to have seen more than what twenty years of life could afford. He had seen death, and not only in its happening. In the man's eyes, Elrond Peredhel had recognized the veil of those who had walked in the land of the dead. And unlike for Glorfindel, this veil was one of sorrow. Like the youngest man, this one seemed to have lived through terrific years.

As for the man with straighter hair, he seemed too calm, resigned in a way, yet determined to suffer through the worst torture to fight until the end. Even as he had killed the man and gained this burn in his palm, Elrond had not seen distress in his eyes. Disgust at himself, certainly, and ultimately, that was what mattered. But no fear, no anxiety. An utter lack of surprise, as if everything had already happened to him, and no misfortune could trouble him more than he permanently was. And maybe it was the case, for the Half-elven lord had seen the dead child, and the hanged woman. He had no doubt they were his son and wife.

All this left the oldest man, with his cuts and bruises and uncaring face. On that point, he reminded the Lord of Imladris much of the man with the burn. But the lack of surprise held something else than utter despair in this man's eyes. There, it was caused by something much darker... Like the absence of faith in his own kind. The eyes of a man who had seen everything and heard about even much more cruelty. Not even savagery, but cold and civilized monstrosity, that an elven person couldn't even dare to imagine, though they lived in a world that both Morgoth and Sauron had ransacked many times. Orcs, goblins, wargs, dragons and many others could be cruel and inhumane, but it was to be expected: they were twisted, cruel creatures. Yet what this man had seen, what was reflected in his eyes, was the deeds of men.

All of them had chaotic lives, Elrond could tell that much. Lives of cruelty, despair, misfortunes, and yet, love. Love that rarely ended well, and always suffered from many obstacles. Love, yet, so pure and strong it sometimes blew out of proportion, and endangered its very happiness. Love too great for one life, and too inhumane for one man.

A thought that had never occurred before to the Lord of Imladris entered his mind. A thought that shouldn't have had to be in the first place, because such a thing was impossible and simply unnatural. Yet, a thought that was perfect for those four men.

These were the lives of elven minds trapped in a human's life.

Those four men were Thranduil's sons, or at least, the souls of the sons the Elvenking might one day have with Aeweryn. They would be trapped, without knowledge of why they felt so unadapted, of why their lives were so unlikely to be, in other times.

And their true bodies, kept hidden deep into the caves of the Halls of Thranduil, kept away from the very eyes of their own brother, would never wake up. They would seem to be alive, and yet wouldn't open their eyes, not in centuries, probably, not in a thousand years.

And Aeweryn would waste away despite her apparent blessing, because out of her five children, only one ran happily in the caves of Greenwood.

And Thranduil would keep it all a secret.

And his son and prince would never know what was in the forbidden room deep in his father's city.

Elrond couldn't believe this vision, this future.

It was too grim for his mind.

And it didn't make sense at all.

Because such a thing couldn't happen.

The Half-elven lord of Imladris wished this had only been a dream.

 

 

**Lothlórien**

**Caras Galadhon – Mirror of Galadriel**

 

Celeborn paled uncharacteristically and rushed to the Mirror. If someone had seen him, they would surely be surprised, but the lord had a good reason to make haste.

“ _Galadriel!”_

His voice was hurried with anxiety, but his wife didn't react to his call.

It wasn't surprising. The Lady of Lórien was leaning on the edge of her Mirror, her left hand dipping into the silver water. When Celeborn reached her, she was unconscious.

How many people had she warned not to touch the water?

“ _Galadriel!!!”_

The Lord of Lothlórien sounded almost desesperate. It wasn't something that happened on a daily basis. And it didn't matter at all, because there was no one to see him, to hear him, to help her.

The elf laid his wife on the ground. She looked pale, but not fair anymore. It was something sick, something wrong, and not her usual light beauty that discolored her features.

Celeborn, for the first time in centuries, didn't know what to do. He couldn't leave Galadriel alone, not even to fetch a random galadhrim and get him to search for a healer. No one had touched the water of the Mirror since it had been created, and Galadriel had always said touching it would cause unpleasant things...

He knew she was breathing, and so he knew her to be alive, but he knew nothing more.

No one had ever touched the water before that day.

So he stayed there, and he looked at his wife, her hands in his own. He waited, waited and waited, and he couldn't say how much time had passed, but he waited there, sitting on the ground next to Galadriel. He waited for ours, unless it was only moments, he couldn't say.

To him, time had never quite mattered, because he was an elf, and seconds and minutes and hours were of no relevance in his life, when in times of peace. Of course, it wasn't the same in times of war, when one waited anxiously for news of more and more deaths, and, maybe of victory.

But this time, it wasn't the same.

This time, they were at peace, and yet Celeborn was here, waiting for his wife to wake up, to come back to him, to reassure him that she would be alright. No one knew what the Mirror would do to someone who had touched its water. Would Galadriel be alright?

Maybe she would start fading. Or her mind could be damaged. Her happiness, gone.

If it came to this, Celeborn would have to make it so that Lothlórien would have a new Lord. If he had to take his wife to the Grey Havens, he wouldn't come back to his beloved Lórien. He would see his daughter and her children one last time, and then depart to Valinor. He wouldn't let Galadriel leave on her own.

As for a Lord of Lórien, the only ones he could think of were his grandsons, Elladan and Elrohir, who were usually glued together and impossible to see without the other. Celeborn was certain they would work it out, if they had to share the leadership of Lothlórien, but he didn't want to see them burdened with suh a responsibility so young. The twins were only around a thousand years old, after all, and they craved travelling like he did peace. They wouldn't be able to live their life if they had to take the Lordship.

But they were the only ones. Celebrian would stay with her husband, and that was perfectly normal. Elrond was already the Lord of Imladris. And Arwen was even younger than her brothers.

As he kept thinking in circles about what he would do if he had to depart to the Undying Lands, if Galadriel was beyond help, Celeborn could ignore the other, terrible possibility. He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't bring himself to.

It was true that all elves were to be brought back to life after a time in the Halls of Mandos. But how much time was uncertain. Some said they wouldn't be freed before the end of time, and others said their soul had to be restored before being let free in Aman. Some said it tooks centuries. Others said millenia. Perhaps in Valinor ressurected elves already walked free, but they had no way of knowing that. When Galadriel had left Aman, no one had ever walked out of the Halls of Awaiting.

The first elves to have died had died long ago. And still no one had ever left the Halls in the First Age. If they really were to be freed one day, it most likely took millenia.

Some said they would be freed from the Halls at the end of time, because they would finally truly be dead, for the world, as well as time, would have ended.

Celeborn didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think that whatever had happened, it could be claiming the life of his wife. He didn't want to think about never seeing Galadriel again, nor to wait for long millenia for her to come out of the Halls of Mandos.

No matter the bliss of Valinor, what would Celeborn do without his wife? How could the ones who had departed to Aman even feel the famous bliss when they didn't have their loved one beside them? Celeborn knew of Valinor only what his wife had told him. He couldn't say he had ever felt the bliss, unlike Galadriel. But he knew that she had left, and he knew she had done so because in her youth she had not felt contented. Maybe it was only bad faith, but the Lord of Lothlórien couldn't see how a place that had not satisfied Galadriel could heal his heart if she came to die.

What if touching the water from the Mirror killed her?

It could.

After all, no one except Galadriel knew a thing about this mirror. She had always said it was as dangerous as it was wondrous, and had never quite elaborated. And every time she had offered someone to look into the Mirror, she had been there to keep them away from the water.

No one, before her, had ever touched the water of the Mirror.

Galadriel's hand clasped on his own, and the Lord of Lórien saw his wife open her eyes.

She was alive.

But her eyes were haunted.

“ _Galadriel.”_

The Lady of Lórien raised her face to her husband, and she blinked.

“ _Celeborn... I'm here again?”_

Her eyes were still lost in a vision. But Galadriel could hear her husband again, and she felt so much better, she might actually have cried. She would have, if her body had been responding to her brain.

But for now, the best she could do was to talk. With difficulties and a weak voice.

“ _I was looking, and suddenly... I don't know. I didn't touch the water, but something forced me down, as if they wanted me to see... As if Lórien himself had wanted me to see...”_

Galadriel was gaining colors again, and Celeborn felt better. He asked her if she could stand, and slowly but surely, they went to their home. Elves they met on their way looked terrified when they saw the state of their Lady, for it was her who kept Caras Galadhon away from prying eyes. Still, she walked straighter as they made their way, and soon enough she only looked a bit pale and tired.

As soon as his worries for his wife disappeared, the Lord of Lothlórien remembered her words, and worry gnawed at him once again.

What could possibly motivate a Vala to reach for his wife, one of the noldor who had walked away from Aman in defiance, all the way to Arda? The Valar never intervened on mortal grounds, though they had send Maiar to help the free people only a century ago. They sometimes acted upon the events in Arda, but it was a rare occurrence. The coming of the Istari had been the most surprising thing to happen in millenia... And it was unlikely they would interfere again any time soon.

Sure, to simply communicate with Galadriel through her Mirror wasn't much in comparison, but it still was more than what was usual.

“ _What did you see, melleth, that you seem so disturbed and tired?”_

The Lady of Lórien smiled sweetly at her husband, and closed her eyes as her head fell on his chest.

For a moment, Celeborn thought she had fallen asleep, though elves did sleep with their eyes open, but her voice startled him after a few minutes of rest.

“ _Thranduil will suffer greatly.”_

“ _Is it decided?”_

Maybe they could prevent such a thing from happening. Because whatever Galadriel had seen, she was still shaken from those sights. If the Elvenking was to suffer directly from what the elleth had seen...

Celeborn dreaded to think how misfortunes that had touched his wife so strongly would affect Thranduil. They had grown up in Doriath, both of them, and the Lord of Lothlórien had witnessed the childhood of the elf when he himself had been barely one thousand years old.

Thranduil could be infuriating now and then, but he didn't deserve to face a sorrow great enough that Galadriel herself had difficulties dealing with, when she certainly had less reasons to be pained.

“ _Nothing is fated to happen, you know that. But I fear it is too late to prevent what is coming. Aeweryn will fade after giving birth to five brothers. Four of them will never wake up, yet they will continue to grow up. Their souls will be trapped into men's bodies in Ages far ahead from ours.”_

“ _Is that even possible?”_

The Lady sighed, and closed her eyes again. It was here, playing again and again in her mind. They were there, the glimpses of other stories, of sons lost through space, time and species. They hadn't left, the images of death and wars and destruction. They were still here, behind her eyelids.

“ _It shouldn't be, and yet it will happen, soon. Babies, five of them, but only one with open blue eyes. A faded Elvenqueen, and a broken Elvenking. And they will live the lives of ostentatiously unlucky men, unable to truly bland in their worlds...”_

“ _I will have a messenger sent to Thranduil by tomorrow morning.”_

“ _And what do you believe he will do? If Aeweryn is already pregnant, he won't have his child killed, even to save his mother, over some visions. If she isn't, I doubt they will refrain from having children for all eternity. These visions don't have an expiration date...”_

Galadriel's voice became softer and softer, and before anyone could tell, she fell into slumber, and not the usual sleep of the elves, as her eyes were closed.

Celeborn sighed, hoping his wife would feel better soon enough.

 

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – Royal quarters**

 

Thranduil lost his composure, for the first time in many centuries. His knees gave away.

Fortunately, no one was there and conscious to see it.

But he didn't care about his image, not now, not this time, not in this situation.

How could this be real?

The Elvenking of Greenwood looked at the sleeping face of his wife, and he hoped that he was himself sleeping, that it hadn't really happened, that it was all a dream. He hoped, and his hopes were crushed. Because if this was a dream, then why wouldn't he woke up? Why was he still here? The worst part of the nightmare had happened, now, and he was supposed to wake up.

But he wasn't waking up.

This wasn't a dream.

But this couldn't be.

It couldn't be!

The Elvenking went, trembling, to the bed where his wife rested. He sat next to her, and looked at the baby in her arms. The elfling was blond, much like himself, and he had blue eyes that twinkled as he laughed merrily. How Aeweryn could sleep through this, Thranduil had no idea, but the sound was charming.

Not charming enough, though, for him to forget about the four other babies, who laid still on the sheets of the bed, and weren't moving, and hadn't moved nor opened an eye for ten hours already.

Four sons of his, and they hadn't moved. They were alive, he could see it, but they weren't there.

Why?

Aeweryn had not woken up yet, and Thranduil guessed it was to be expected, after giving birth not to one child, not to two, but to five! Never before had he heard of such a thing happening amongst the elves, and from what he knew it was a rare event even amongst mortals, who had many more children than they did, since they didn't live long.

But they should have woken up, then, his sons, as the only blond one had. But they hadn't. Not the first one, not the third one, not the fourth one, not the fifth one. Only the second one had opened his eyes, and cried as he searched for air.

In ten hours, they had been as still as corpses, and yet, Thranduil had checked, their hearts beat. Slowly, too slowly, surely, but they beat. The midwife had checked, and they were alive, but somehow, they wouldn't wake up.

They weren't there.

The King of the Woodland Realm was desperate, but there was nothing he could do, beside looking at those babies, his children, and wonder why this was happening to him. Why was this happening to them? Why did he have to suffer such a curse? What had he done to make them all suffer such injustice? Valar! Why him?!

Why them?

The children had done nothing.

Thranduil brushed his fingers on his sons' faces, one after another, and only the second-born giggled at his touch. The others didn't react, yet he knew they were alive.

Out of these five sons, five unexpected gifts, four had his wife's deep brown hair.

And they wouldn't ever greet their mother?

What was he going to say to Eaweryn, when she'd wake up? What was he going to do with those children, his children, when they didn't seem to be alive?

The Elvenking had ordered the midwife to keep quiet for now, and wait for more orders. He couldn't let the word spread that he had five sons, when only one would ever walk the Halls.

Aeweryn.

She wouldn't be able to withstand that much infortune.

Thranduil wasn't sure he would withstand it, not even with one son, a gift he had wished for for decades now, when he'd know the others should have been laughing alongside their brother.

And this brother, would he truly be able to laugh, when he'd be old enough to understand? Would his secondborn be happy, even if that was the very nature of elflings, knowing he was the only one to be truly alive? Would the Elvenking himself be able to look at his son, and not think about the four others, lying still, as if in wait, but an endless one?

He stared at the beautiful blond baby, and he feared.

If the child's brothers never woke up, would he be able to give his only remaining son the love he deserved? He would love the child, Thranduil knew that. But it didn't mean he would be able to show it.

The King of Greenwood the Great didn't know what to do, and he didn't know what he would say to his wife when she'd wake up, and he didn't know what he would say to his son when he'd be old enough to understand, and he didn't know if he would even survive such a tragedy. Thranduil had no idea of what would his future be, and that as for once in his long life, he cared.

 

 

**Imladris**

 

Elrond was barely out of his room that a messenger from Lórien was taken to him and gave him a letter from Celeborn. Overly concerned after the dreams from the preceding week, he couldn't help a feeling of dread from cloudering his mind.

The Half-elven hurried to his study. If the message wasn't vocal, and the messenger himself hadn't been able to give any details, it must mean this was something important, something grave.

There, he sat at his desk, under the impression he'd need to be seated when he'd read Celeborn's letter.

He wasn't wrong.

Despair or horror, the Lord of Imladris wasn't sure, but it struck, and for a while, Elrond was reminded of darker times, of the First Age, of Morgoth, and later of the Last Alliance, and all the battles in between. Certainly not all evil had been vanquished, but even with the shadow of the Necromancer in Dol Goldur, even with the darkness that was slowly making its may into Greenwood the Great, the times were far from terrible.

Yet, why was misfortune so strong on some of them?

He had sent a messenger to Thranduil the day after his dream, and had yet to receive an answer. Visions weren't always meant to become real, but they did often enough, though not always as one might have believed. It was better for the Elvenking to know, even if there was nothing he could do. Elrond wasn't going to believe the want of children would simply fade away if Thranduil and Aeweryn refrained from having children.

It had been a while now, that he hadn't had news from the Woodland Realm. The roads were dangerous, and spiders had started to spread in the woods. He knew very well that Thranduil was yet adapting to the change of pace in his kingdom, and hadn't had much time to care about what happened outside.

And that wasn't a problem in itself, and it shouldn't have been one, but it was one.

For all Elrond knew, the Elvenqueen could already be pregnant.

And this letter from Celeborn just told him Galadriel had seen exactly the same fate for the royalty of Greenwood the Great as he had. Worst, even, since she had been almost pulled into her Mirror, as if by the will of the Valar, leaving her weak and sickly.

Elves didn't get sick.

Not unless they were touched by something evil; poison, spells, the great power of one such as Sauron or Morgoth... And when they were, they usually were on their way to death too.

Yet, Lórien had seen fit to endanger Galadriel's life and strength, even when she was the one protecting all the First Borns in Lothlórien, so the Lady of the Light could see this grim future.

His own visions had been way too straightforward, too.

What were the odds, now, that such a fate would not come to be?

Aeweryn, broken, fading, gone.

Thranduil, broken, cold, uncaring.

One child, and four children, who would never really know the warmth that should have been theirs by right, for their mother would be gone, and for four of them would be in another reality, other times, bound to death as mortals, and for the last one would never see the love and happiness in his father's eyes.

A light rasping noise on the outside of his study's door took Elrond back to the present, and the Hal-elven allowed whoever it was to enter, just not before he had put the letter away.

Erestor was there, and next to him was an elf from the Woodland realm, holding a letter in his hands. He seemed incredibly pleased with the news he was taking to the Last Homely House, and for a mere instant, the Lord of Imladris thought he had been wrong, and these visions were false, the letter from Celeborn wasn't real, and there was still hope for Thranduil.

One short instant only.

“ _What are the news from Greenwood the Great?”_

The messenger's face lost some of its mirth, but it didn't last long. A great joy had been given to the Woodland Realm, and even the struggle of the warriors weren't enough to forget that.

“ _There are always more skirmishes with spiders and other evils, and for the first time in centuries our warriors have suffered injuries doing their duty. But for now we stand strong, and millenia will come to pass before the Woodland Realm shall fall. We will live on, and the birth of a prince the very day of my departure from our woods can only be a promise of more years to pass.”_

Four days.

Elrond hid his unease perfectly, and the messenger hadn't any idea of the turmoil in the lord's heart when he left him to rest after his journey, but that did not mean in any way that it wasn't here.

Four days since the messenger's departure.

Four days since the birth of Thranduil's and Aeweryn's child.

Their child.

Only one.

Four days since Elrond's dream and Galadriel's misadventure.

The Lord of Imladris read the letter, and even if nothing could be guessed from its perfect writing, the Half-elven could feel the disturbance its writer had experienced while writing this letter. The matters of politics and defense were the most important points, especially considering Dol Goldur. And at the end, there was a note telling him that Greenwood the Great now had a prince, Legolas son of Thranduil, Legolas Greenleaf.

Only one prince.

Elrond stayed still for what felt like hours, but were more likely only a few minutes.

Eventually, he got up from his chair and went to search for his family. Celebrian, Elrohir, Elladan and Arwen were happily discussing various subjects on a balcony when he found them. They were surprised by his sudden decision, but when Celebrian met her husband's eyes, she saw something there, something alarming and alarmed. She didn't ask, and only nodded.

The Half-elven then went to find Glorfindel to accompany him on a journey to the Woodland Realm, leaving Imladris under the care of Celebrian and Erestor. The Lord of the House of the Golden Flower followed the one he had sworn to protect with surprise as they rode out of the Last Homely House.

 

 

**Lothlórien**

**Caras Galadhon – Galadriel's and Celeborn's talan**

 

When Celeborn received Elrond's missive, five days had passed since Galadriel's torment.

He read the letter, and couldn't miss the similarities.

Galadriel was still weak and resting, but he went to her, and she confirmed his suspicions. Elrond's dream was her vision, figure by figure, moment by moment.

Then another messenger came, from the Woodland Realm, and the Lord and Lady of Lórien knew it was too late to prevent anything from happening. A prince had been born in Greenwood.

Their own messenger must have just reached the Elvenking, and to deliver news Thranduil already knew.

Galadriel smiled to her husband, and he helped her to walk to her Mirror. There, she took out a silver flask, and filled it with the basin's water.

“ _Say to Thranduil to have a stone basin made in the chamber where they rest. He shall fill it with pure water from the river, and then pour this water in it. Finally, he'll have to add a drop of his sons' blood and one of his own. It will allow him to see moments of their lives once their counterparts in the Race of Men come to life.”_

Celeborn agreed to his wife's demand, and set out for Eryn Galen with three warriors to accompany him on his fourney.

 

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – Royal quarters**

 

Aeweryn was nursing her son, and she felt content, but at the same time, she had a feeling something was missing. Her husband had been next to her when she had woken up, and he had asked her so many questions, the elleth felt something was wrong, but no matter what, he wouldn't tell her. Now, Thranduil had locked himself into one of the deepest cave, and he wouldn't come out, not even to see Legolas.

Legolas.

The Elvenking had stayed just long enough for her to name their child, and he had practically run away after that. For a time, Aeweryn had thought something had happened and needed the king's presence, but the guards had told her no such thing had happened, and that no one knew why, but Thranduil had asked for the deepest, most useless cave in the palace, and had had some things moved here, though no one knew what exactly.

The Elvenqueen smiled at her son, and her son smiled back at her, and she marveled into his existence.

But deep in her heart, she felt something was wrong.

As if she had forgotten something.

Something important.

Someone.

But try as she might, the elleth couldn't remember what or who it was, and she felt weakened, dangerously frail and pale. Since she had given birth, she hadn't been feeling well, and she couldn't understand why, and the healers didn't have the slightest idea of what was happening to her.

But it wasn't so difficult to understand, in fact.

It was simply that they weren't considering the right answer possible.

After all, why would the Elvenqueen fade right after her child's birth?

 

**The cave**

 

Thranduil was alone, alone in the cave, as alone as one elf could be when in the same room as his four lifeless sons.

Before him were two letters, one from Celeborn, the other from Elrond. Neither of the messengers had known what it was about, and as soon as they had told him so, the Elvenking had dreaded it had to do with his family's current predicament.

He hadn't been wrong.

The eld had been staring at the letters for a long time, now, and he still couldn't believe this calamity had befallen his family. Why him? Why them? Why not someone else, another family, but not his?

He knew the horror of such thoughts, the cruelty there was behind wishing for his misfortune to be another's instead, but he couldn't help it.

Four of his sons had never opened their eyes, and his wife didn't remember that she didn't have one, but five children. And she was fading, Thranduil could see, he could sense it.

Why them?

Galadriel and Elrond had seen it. They had seen his children grow up, but not woke up. They had seen men with the faces and minds of his sons, living other lives in another Age, thousands and thousands of years from this day. They had seen them in wars and despair, and never in happiness. The Lady of the the Wood and the Lord of Imladris had had visions, and these visions had told them his sons were to live as mortals in other realities, other times, other worlds. They would grow up without ever knowing their true father and mother, or even their brothers, and they would suffer lives of hardship, and in the end they would die of old age, if they weren't killed before that.

Thranduil and Aeweryn would never see them, speak to them, know them.

Legolas was young, he was only a few days old, and already his family was falling apart. His brothers weren't truly there, hidden away, a secret to keep for their father, who would never be able to look at him as he should, and a secret kept from their mother, who despite not knowing, still felt something wasn't right, and it was taking away her life, and it was stealing away their bliss.

Valar!

What had he done to deserve this?

 

**Entrance to the Halls**

 

Elrond was the first to arrive in the Woodland Realm, and before the surprised eyes of silvan elves, the Lord of Imladris rode into their kingdom, Glorfindel behind him.

No one knew why he had come, and even the Elvenking hadn't known, for the Half-elven hadn't wasted time in sending an envoy to warn him beforehand.

The Lord of Imladris dismounted his steed and entrusted it to one of the elves who had come forward. Then he turned to his fellow traveler.

“ _Do whatever you wish, Glorfindel. I have to speak to Thranduil, and it might take some time.”_

The last elf of the House of the Golden Flower bowed to his lord, and went his way, taking the unwanted attention to him and his golden hair. It was not everyday that the one who had come back from the Halls of Mandos walked into Eryn Galen.

The one who came to Elrond, however, was not the Elvenking, but his queen.

The elleth didn't miss how, instead of lighting up at the sight of the baby in her arms, the Half-elven's face darkened as his eyes fell on the sleeping elfling.

“ _Lord Elrond. We weren't expecting you.”_

He smiled apologetically, but Aeweryn could only see gravity on his face, and she feared what it meant. The Lord of Imladris had always had a serious personality, unlike her husband who was well known for his apparent arrogance, but this was something else. The Elvenqueen only saw in this a confirmation to her thoughts: something was amiss, and Thranduil was keeping it from her.

“ _I apologize, your majesty. But I couldn't waste time with sending a messenger to announce me, and I wouldn't be surprise if the king was expecting my visit.”_

“ _Please, Elrond, call me as you ever did. As for Thranduil, I woudn't know. He has disappeared as soon as we gave this child a name.”_

Elrond looked at the child, and he recognized the blond hair, so uncharacteristic amongst the Sindar, yet so characteristic of Thranduil. But that wasn't what he thought about. No, he remembered the child, and then the adult, who would wait for his father behind closed doors.

“ _Congratulations, Aeweryn. Your son seems to bring you a great joice.”_

And yet so much sadness.

The Elvenqueen, as if to confirm his thoughts, smiled sadly.

“ _To me, maybe, but not to his father, it seems. I guess you wish to speak with him. If you could, Elrond, would you get him to come out of the room he locked himself in and see us, Legolas and I?”_

“ _There is no need to ask.”_

As she turned to lead him to her husband, the Lord of Imladris watched her.

Aeweryn was as beautiful as ever, and yet the lord could tell she had lost some of her radiance. Even if she didn't know why, she was obviously fading, and that made Elrond's heart ache in compassion. A mother truly knew about her children at all times.

She had all her grace, surely, and her wavy dark hair and her brown eyes were full of warmth, but her smile was lacking. The only times she had seemed truly happy were when she talked about the son in her arms, and even then, it didn't last long, as if she knew there were four other babies upon whom she should be able to look this way.

Aeweryn didn't see the Half-elven for the next three days, and she wondered what could be so important that neither the Elvenking nor the Lord of Imladris would come out of this cave.

Her surprise only got stronger when a galadhrim rode into the Halls announcing that Lord Celeborn was to arrive in a few hours. Him too looked with undisguised sadness upon her son, and the Elvenqueen finally understood that everything that was happening had to do with his birth, though she couldn't surmise how. She led the Lord of Lórien to the cave where her husband and the Lord of Imladris had locked themselves in, and she waited for them to come out.

They'd have to tell her, she thought, as she nursed Legolas.

He was her son too.

 

**The cave**

 

Celeborn entered the cave with a sad heart, and what he saw there didn't help him to feel relieved.

Elrond was there already, as Aeweryn had told him, and he was sitting next to a still baby, but he wasn't examining him anymore, his brow furrowed in thought and his face grave.

Thranduil was sitting too, but he wasn't looking anywhere, dread writing all over his face.

The Elvenking suddenly looked up, and when he saw the Lord of Lothlórien, his face lit up for a moment, as if hoping he, at least, would have better news from his wife and her Mirror. But soon enough, all light was gone from his eyes, and he feared there would only be bitter news instead.

“ _Celeborn. Anything you can tell me that Elrond hasn't told me already?”_

And he gestured to the four babies who weren't moving, who weren't living, but who, as he had known for days now, weren't dead either. They just weren't there.

Celeborn looked, and unlike Thranduil who had had this sight to contemplate and despair over for days, and unlike Elrond who had dreamed of it, and unlike Galadriel who had been shown it, the spectacle before his eyes was new to him, and it filled him with sadness as not many things before had ever done.

“ _I told you already, Thranduil, that moving your anger onto me won't make you feel better. I can do nothing else, than to tell you exactly what I have seen, and I did that already, or to examine them. They are alive, as you already knew, but they aren't there, and there is nothing else I can do about that.”_

Elrond's voice was weary, so weary and tired, it seemed as if he was back to a time of greater evil.

But Thranduil was hurt, and both lords knew it. He wasn't trying to be unfair to them. He simply was.

“ _And what visions those were! My sons, living but as men in times far ahead from us, in times were there are no more elves and dwarves, no more orcs and goblins! Ages so remoted the Race of Men will have forgotten all of Arda's History! My sons, living only to die, as mortals! Men, taken away by wars and misfortunes! One city burning, another assieged! One son killed in battle, another left alone after what sound like murders! And to make it all better, the only son I have left, taken by orcs! What future is this, Elrond? My wife will fade before long, and I will be left with a son to whom I won't be able to prove my love, nor to explain why. Have I sinned as Fëanor did, that I have to see my flesh and blood suffer a fate worst than even his sons'?!”_

Elrond said nothing. Celeborn said nothing.

The accursed sons of Fëanor. It was no surprise the Elvenking would talk of this cursed family, when such misfortune had befallen him too. Their fate was well known.

They could only hope Legolas' and his brothers' wouldn't be the same.

Thranduil let himself fall back on his seat.

“ _There is nothing to do. There is nothing you can help me with, Elrond, Celeborn. They are here, and that is all. They won't move, not in a century, not in a thousand years. I will look at Legolas, and I will think of his mother, gone with his birth, of his brothers, lifeless in this cave, of the family we will never be! There is nothing you can do to help me. You'd better go back to Imladris and Caras Galadhon.”_

Celeborn sighed, and gave Thranduil the flask with the water of the Mirror.

“ _Get a basin made in here, and fill it with the water from the river. Then add this water in it, and a drop of your blood, yours and your sons'. When the time comes, it will allow you to witness glimpses of their life, according to Galadriel.”_

Thranduil almost threw the flask away in anger, but in the end he couldn't do it. He didn't want to see their lives if he wasn't in it, and at the same time, he wished to know his sons, even if they would be human, even if they wouldn't know him, even if, in their times, they would have another father and another mother.

Elrond and Celeborn shared a look, and before they left, the Lord of Imladris said one last thing that froze the king's blood in his veins.

“ _Talk to Aeweryn, Thranduil. She is no fool, and she can see you're hiding something. She has already begun to fade. You owe it to her to let her see them, even if they are in this state. A mother always knows when there is something wrong with her children, and since Legolas is alright...”_

 

 

**Entrance to the Halls**

 

The Elvenqueen, her son in her arms, watched as the two lords left the Halls, her husband by her side. At least, Elrond and Celeborn had managed to get him out of this dratted cave.

“ _Aeweryn, we need to talk.”_

“ _I had noticed.”_

Thranduil winced at the slightly accusatory tone in her voice.

He looked at her, and couldn't help but notice how tired she looked. This was worst than when he had left her with Legolas to mourn their other sons. He guessed every elf in Eryn Galen knew by now, that their queen was fading.

For an instant, the thought that he'd better say nothing, because she was already so weak, so drained of her life force, convinced the king.

But he couldn't lie to her anymore.

The Elvenking led his wife deep into the palace, and they arrived before a large double door.

Aeweryn held her breath. This was the room her husband and the two lords had locked themselves in for so many hours. This was where was kept Thranduil's secret, and she already knew she wouldn't like it. The feeling that it would destroy her was strong, and yet...

Yet she had to enter and know.

The double door opened, and they walked in.

The cave was dark, and Thranduil lighted the lanterns only when the doors were closed again.

A dim light pervaded the place, and the Elvenqueen saw the forms of four beds of stone.

On each was a baby, still as death.

Babies with Legolas' face.

Her sons.

She had difficulties speaking, but she had to ask.

So she turned to her husband.

“ _Are they Legolas' brothers?”_

Yes. Aeweryn could see the answer in his eyes.

“ _Were they stillborn?”_

The question burned her throat, but she had to know.

“ _They are alive, Aeweryn.”_

Alive?

“ _They're simply... not there.”_

“ _Elrond and Galadriel saw them, didn't they?”_

“ _They did.”_

Thranduil wouldn't tell her about their fates as mortals in other times. He wouldn't tell her they'd live lives of misfortune and danger. Aeweryn didn't need to know that. And she wouldn't live long enough now to even know about the basin.

The Elvenqueen walked to the sons she'd never know, even if they were to wake up one day. She was no fool. She knew she was fading. And now, she knew why.

“ _They have my hair.”_

She smiled, and somehow, she seemed to feel better than before, and more tired at the same time. Thranduil's heart ached at her sight, but he smiled too, though his own smile was as sad as hers. Maybe that was it. She had let it go, and she'd fade faster now, because her reasons to live were drifting away from her. But she looked a bit more at peace, now, and he'd take what he could.

“ _Maybe they have your eyes too.”_

They did. Elrond had seen them as men, and he had told him they were exactly the same as what they would look like as grown-up elves. As handsome; only, with a beard for some, and not as light-footed as they should have been, and without the natural feint glow of the First Borns.

But Thranduil wouldn't tell his wife about the other lives their sons would have as mortals.

As he wouldn't tell her about Legolas being eventually taken prisoner by orcs one day.

He didn't want her to know of their suffering.

And so he couldn't tell her that four of her sons had her soft brown eyes, so uncommon amongst elves, who usually had pale eyes, grey, blue, sometimes green, and from time to time, dark eyes, deep blue, violet, or black.

Aeweryn turned to her husband, and her smile was genuine, though only a shadow of her old joy.

“ _Did you name them?”_

“ _It is your role.”_

He hadn't wanted to, knowing he wouldn't even get to use those names. But he knew his wife would want to do it. So he let her do so.

Even if he hadn't, she'd have done it eitherway.

“ _Which one is the firstborn? Unless it is Legolas?”_

“ _No, Legolas is our second son. Here. That's him.”_

And he guided her to a bed on her left.

Aeweryn gave him their only blond son to have her hands free, and Thranduil took Legolas in his arms as she brushed her fingers on their firstborn's face. The mother didn't say anything when the baby didn't react in anyway, but a shadow came upon her face. Nonetheless, when she looked back at her husband, she was smiling again.

“ _It is odd, but I feel his name should be Firlach. He would be one leaping flame, always evading death. A dangerous personality, for himself more than for others.”_

The Elvenqueen went to the bed of stone on the far left, and acted the same as she had with Firlach.

“ _Which one is he?”_

“ _Our fourth son.”_

“ _Raudamon. Able to see far ahead, and too lucid for his own good. A tall and noble mind, looking from a high place upon the world, and despite his pessimism, who fight for what he hold dear.”_

Aeweryn then moved to the elflings on their right. The one near them looked as lifeless as the two preceding ones, but she still caressed his cheek lovingly.

“ _He is the fifth one.”_

The elleth nodded, and took a step back. Unshed tears were shining in her lashes.

“ _This one is Hirban. A benevolent lord if there ever was. Calm and composed. So unlike you, Thranduil.”_

The Elvenqueen didn't wait for a irate answer, and turned to the last child. Thranduil wouldn't have lashed out at her, anyway. Not in this situation.

“ _Our third son... This one is like you, melleth. Fierce, loyal, vindictive, but still wise, and a perfect lover. Determined. A true protector, like Hirban. Inasthol.”_

Then Aeweryn took Legolas back into her arms, her little hunter of the forest. Thranduil watched her leave the cave, and behind her, the doors creaking shut.

 

 

**TA 1129**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil - The Elvenking's palace - The cave**

 

“ _I lasted longer than I thought I would.”_

“ _It is no laughing matter, melleth.”_

Aeweryn chuckled lightly, but soon stopped, too weak to continue.

She had been bedded for the last four months, and now it was finally time.

Thranduil was sitting next to her on the bed, her hands in his, and Legolas on his lap. The elfling was almost three year old, now, and he knew something was happening, something terrible, but he still couldn't understand why his mother wouldn't get out of her bed and play with him. He knew she was ill, and he hoped she'd be better soon. But still, four months, that was long even for an elf, when he had not yet seen three winters.

“ _I'll say 'Hi' to your father when I reach the Halls, Thranduil. Take care of Legolas for me.”_

The Elvenking only nodded, unable to speak.

Why had Aeweryn wanted to pass away here? He couldn't bear the idea that his four other sons were just there, behind the curtain, and that if Legolas managed to get away, he just had to draw the said curtain, and he'd see...

But he had guessed she wanted to be amongst the children that should have been hers.

And he had let her do as she pleased.

As he always did.

As he would never do anymore.

Legolas' voice drew him out of his thoughts, and tears escaped from his eyes witout his consent.

“ _Ada. Nana closed her eyes. Why?”_

 

 

**TA 2289**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave**

 

The midwife who had helped the birth of the princes of the Woodland Realm, in other words one of the three people who knew there wasn't only one prince, had accepted the Elvenking's offer to keep watch over the lifeless princes, in case a miracle happened. Her and a trusted guard of the king were taking turns when the king wasn't here himself, and that since the death of the Elvenqueen Aeweryn. They were the only two, with the king, who knew what had really killed the queen.

She had witnessed the construction of the large basin that held a few drops of water from the Mirror of Galadriel. She knew that, if anything should trouble its waters, she was to call for the king, by talking to one of the guards who stood outside of the cave.

So when the water began to boil, she did just that.

Only half an hour later, the Elvenking bursted into the room and she took her leave. On her way out, she saw the only conscious prince standing awkwardly in the corridor. That is, as awkward as royalty could get in Mirkwood. She looked at the floor not to stare at him. Unlike him, she knew why his father was so cold to his son, and why the prince more than anyone else was prohibited from entering the cave...

Thranduil went to stand before the basin, and the water stopped boiling as if nothing had ever happened. But something had happened, and the image the water showed him then wasn't his own face, but a woman with a baby in her arms.

The Elvenking stopped breathing for a moment, as he recognized without a doubt the features of the baby. Inasthol.

He had exactly the same face as when his elven body had been born, and, of course, the same face as his four brothers at the time. But Thranduil had spent so much time looking at each of them that he could tell them apart, and not only because they were always on a distinct bed of stone, or because there was only one who actually moved. He didn't know how, but he was sure this baby was Inasthol.

And the woman...

It was astounding.

The other mother of his son was a copy of his deceased wife. A bit less fair, maybe, because the woman semeed to have had a hard life, and she was only a Second Born. But she looked too much like Aeweryn for it to be a coincidence.

Maybe one of his descendants would wed a mortal, and his own descendance would be the one to bear the souls of his sons?

No matter.

A man came into the picture, and took the baby in his arms. Thranduil noted that the man looked quite a bit like Legolas, too, but with Aeweryn's coloring. What were the odds that two of his descendants had found each other?

For the first time in years, the Elvenking cried as he looked at the mortal life of his third son and at the two parents that were his, and yet weren't himself and Aeweryn.

 

 

**TA 2981**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave**

 

Thranduil had come many times to see the life of his third son in the basin, and the glimpses he had seen weren't kind to Inasthol, or William as they had named him. Funny how Aeweryn had been spot on with the name.

He had been surprised to see the Race of Men were still talking Westron, or at least a language that was mostly similar to Westron, in some part of a world that had changed so much he hadn't been able to recognize anything the rare times he had seen a map somewhere.

But he couldn't really bring himself to care about that, when his son had faced so much difficulties.

Thranduil had seen all that mattered.

He had seen the disappearance of the father that he wasn't. He had seen the woman that was a copy of his wife die of sickness. He had seen the first pirate attack on his son, and the sinking of the ship that was larger than anything he had ever seen, even in Mithlond. He had seen the love for the governor's daughter, which he had to admit was a true beauty, even if a beauty harder than that of any elleth's, and how his orphan of a son had been at first unable to say anything because of who he was. If they had known! He had seen the second attack, and he had often feared for William's life, that was already doomed to be so short... He had seen him steal a ship, and the cursed pirates, and the attemps to sacrifice Inasthol. He had seen the hanging of the pirate who had helped Will, and the aborted wedding. The search for Jack Sparrow. The cursed captain of the _Flying Dutchman_. The heart that beat but wasn't in the right kind of chest. The kraken. The locker and the sea of the dead, which he suspected was one of the way to the Halls of Mandos. Calypso, who was obviously a Maia under Ulmo, or, as they called him then, Poseidon. How Will's love had become Pirate King, though he had had a hard time figuring out why it wasn't Pirate Queen. The battle between the pirates and the East Indian Company.

And eventually, Will's death.

For the last seven hundred and two years, Thranduil had come once a week, and watched as moments of his son's life had appeared in the basin. He had seen the son of his son, the death of this son's mother, and the grief of his own son, now as immortal as an elf, maybe more, since the only way to kill him was by stabbing his heart, but more of a prisoner than Thranduil would ever been.

This week, he had come prepared to see some more minutes of Inasthol's despair.

But the basin was boiling, and the Elvenking rushed to it.

He saw a man he had never seen before, and in his arms, a baby he knew very well. In a white bed behind them was a woman who looked too much like Aeweryn and Will's other mother for it to be a coincidence.

Raudamon.

His fourth son.

Or Brian, as it was. Still spot on with the name, it seemed.

 

 

**TA 2989**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave**

 

The last eight years of glimpses hadn't been overly joyous. Inasthol was still a prisoner on his own ship, and Thranduil had a nasty feeling that Raudamon's other father was a bit too much like him when it came to discrimination. But him, at least, even if he didn't like dwarves out of principle, he wasn't saying they should all be killed or be his slaves, so he felt a bit better about that.

It was good that Brian's mother was still alive, unlike Will's or Legolas', but his father was difficult to live with, more so than the Elvenking with his other son.

From what Thranduil had understood, Brian's time was somewhere in Will's time frame, when the captain had been around three hundreds years old. And so he was a bit disturbed by how the basin was working. If it had started to show him Will some seven hundreds years ago, why hadn't he seen Brian when the boy had been born in Will's time?

And now, the basin was boiling again, and once again, the king saw the face of a baby he knew in the water, in the arms of a woman whose only differences with Aeweryn was that she was poor and not a queen or an elleth.

Of the other father, there was no sighting. He could have been dead, or gone. Or both.

Thranduil watched his fifth son in the arms of a woman that reminded him of his wife. Hirban was born, and she had given him the name of Balian. The Elvenking hadn't understood much else, because they were talking a language he had heard only once or twice in Raudamon's country. But from what he could guess, Aeweryn had once again been spot on with the name.

He had no idea how she could have done that, but she had.

 

 

**TA 2998**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave**

 

Nine years had passed since Hirban's birth, and Thranduil couldn't help but notice how Inasthol had been the only one to be shown to him so soon. Maybe it had to do with him becoming immortal at twenty-one years old, but how could the basin have known this would happen? There was something there, something meaningful...

And he had no idea what.

So he had looked into the basin, once a week, as usual, and he had seen, as always, Inasthol becoming more and more like himself, broken, cold, and that without the possibility to enjoy immortality as elves did, because everyone around him, besides the ghosts he had as crew members, died one day or another, and because he was bound to a duty that let him only one day every ten years to do whatever he wanted. He had seen Will sending to the Halls of Mandos many of his own descendants. He had seen the time pass, and not leave anything else behind other than despair in the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ 's life.

So he had looked into the basin, and he had seen Raudamon grow more bitter as his mother had died in a shipwreck, and his father had tried to make him see how colored people were supposed to be inferior. Brian had a thing for History, and Thranduil had learned more than he would be able to forget about the cruelty of Men in the Age his sons lived in.

So he had looked into the basin, and strangely enough, he had seen Hirban grow up in a world that seemed a lot like the Men's in this Third Age. Balian had a half-brother that hated him more than anything, and people looked at him badly because he had no father. He had seen Balian's mother pass away from sickness, and he had wondered if Aeweryn's clones were doomed to have a life as short as hers, considering she had been an elleth, of course, and not a mortal.

Lately, he had heard with surprise that Hirban was going to follow the same path as Inasthol, blacksmith. He wondered if, even if Aeweryn had compared the later to himself, and said that Hirban was very different from him, in the end, the two weren't more alike than she had thought.

Then again, she had never got the chance to know her sons.

And after all that, it left only Firlach, his firstborn.

Those were Thranduil's thoughts as he looked at the boiling basin in front of him.

He came before it.

And the water showed him a woman who looked older than any of the other Aeweryn-clones, but who had definitely their features too. She had a baby in her arms, and many other children were looking at her. The Elvenking was surprised to see how many of them looked a bit like her. She couldn't possibly have had twenty children, could she?

But his eyes fell back on the baby, and this was surely Firlach.

A man came in, who wasn't very young either, and had some kind of resemblance or another with every child in the room. If he was the father, he had been busy. There were at least fifty children, some who looked close to thirty years old...

The man talked about a seer and the mother's dream, and Thranduil narrowed his eyes. This language was one of the old times according to William, and Brian had learned it in school... Ancient Greek. The Elvenking could almost understand everything.

He had to say, he didn't like the sound of the dream, nor did he like the fact that in the end, the parents decided they had to kill his son. Sure, if the dream was anything like Elrond's and Galadriel's visions, his being born was to be the doom of their city... But still, it was his son, and Thranduil knew from experience you can't do anything to trick a vision into not happening.

Paris was the other name of Firlach, and apparently, Aeweryn had outdone herself on this one. Flaming torche, wasn't it?

 

 

**TA 3017**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave**

 

Thranduil was thinking, and how many things did he have to think about!

There was the issue of Sauron gaining power again, of course.

And the spiders in his forest.

But for now, Thranduil wasn't thinking about those.

No, he was thinking about Will's fate as the immortal ferrymen of the dead, about Brian and the death of all his friends in his last investigation, about Balian who had been revealed to be Baron of Ibelin and had been loved by a queen and had saved the people of a city instead of the city istelf, about Paris who had found back his family and fallen in love and started a war that had killed most of his incredibly large family.

Now that he though about it, Helen of Sparta had been way too beautiful to be a simple mortal. What was the myth, according to Brian's lessons? Helen of Sparta... Daughter of Zeus. Who sounded an awful lot like Manwë. And apparently, Paris' father Priam was the son of a Maia.

If anything, the Ainur had been pretty busy in the time of Ancient Greece.

That made his sons' ancestry quite a mess, if Thranduil was right in his assumption.

Let's see...

They all had two fathers and two mothers, two of which were Elvenking and queen of the Woodland Realm.

Legolas was most likely Paris' ancestor, Paris had to be Balian's, Balian William's, and William Brian's. And they were all brothers, and not in that order, since Paris was the firstborn, followed by Legolas, William, Balian and finally Brian.

Why so many “a” and “i”, by the way?

Aside from that, Paris was a Maia's grandson.

And if he ever had a child with Helen, this child would be Manwë's grandchild too.

And let's not forget Will, who, if the rumors were true, was a descendant of Mandos, known in the blacksmith's time as Chronos or Hades, and who worked for said Vala in sending the dead mortals to the Halls. And all that through a Maia who was most likely one of Ulmo's.

Balian had nothing to be ashamed of, still, because his other father had been a Lord, and that wasn't just anything. And, considering the timeline and the fact that Valar and Maiar seemed to have had a good time during the Antiquity, Will's ancestor that was a mortal child of Mandos was most likely Balian's too.

As for Brian, well, being the last of this old family that seemed to continue through their various mothers, he had blood from each of his brothers' unlikely ancestors. Oropher, Thranduil, Aeweryn, Legolas, a Maia, Paris, Manwë, Mandos, the Lords of Ibelin, Balian, and William.

This was becoming terrible for the Elvenking's head.

If someone asked him at this precise moment, Thranduil might have said that the Valar had brought this curse upon his family only so that they could mess with his family tree.

The King of the Woodland Realm sighed and went to the basin that held the secret to his sons' lives.

He still had no idea how the basin worked, and why it was showing him Inasthol', Raudamon's, Hirban's and Firlach's lives not in the chronological order. But it was better than nothing.

For the last centuries, he had had hours to know Legolas, and only glimpses of the others.

He took what he could.

Thranduil looked in the basin.

He saw what had happened in the last week of his children's life through glimpses.

Will's were rare, for the captain's life had been quite repetitive during the last centuries. Most of the time, the only things interesting were when Will saw one of his descendants amongst the dead at sea. Their descendants had a things for the sea since Bill Turner, it seemed. Maybe a resurgence of the elves' sea longing? It was a bit macabre, Thranduil had to say. But at least it wasn't his son mourning over his wife and immortality.

Oh, and the Elvenking had to admit Inasthol always made sure his day ashore was worth it. He knew every single point of interest of this Age, at least until the year 2463 of his calendar.

Brian's were rather depressing too. But the young man had finally finished his father's grave. That had to mean something.

And the detective was still heavily bruised in the face, and his son and ex-wife still didn't want anything to do with him, and all his friends were dead, so Thranduil guessed Raudamon had every right to be pessimistic.

Balian's were disappointing, when the elf thought of his son's time as Lord of Ibelin. But Hirban had finally wedded Sibylla, and they were happy, if poor enough, back in France. Better than anything.

Paris', finally, were alarming.

Troy was at his worst, and from what the Elvenking could see, the Greeks had used a ruse he knew well because of Brian's myths books to enter the city. Blood and fire, death. After Hector's rather gruesome demise, the myth of Troy had gone from tragedy to slaughter. Priam had died, and he wasn't the only one of Paris' family to have passed away. Right now, Thranduil could see Firlach shooting arrows worthy of Legolas' upon Hector's killer. The young man then took his crying cousin Briseis to security, and the Elvenking had no idea how he had remembered all of the family tree of Paris, because it was hell, as they called it.

The image of Firlach disappeared.

A face Thranduil knew, but that had never before been in the basin, appeared instead.

Legolas, in the hands of orcs.

After that, it was only flashes of different stories.

Cassandra, sister of Paris, after Hector's death. Paris, running with Briseis. Odysseus, on a ship.

Balian, blacksmith in France once again. Sibylla, in the most expensive clothes, back in Jerusalem.

The commodore Norrington, wounded and left for dead on the _Dutchman_. Elizabeth Swann, before the battle with the East Indian Company. Anamaria, back in Tortuga. William, on the _Dutchman_.

And Brian, bruised, sitting at a table in a coffee shop.

Legolas forcing himself not to scream as orcs took his blood.

Then everything went black.

And Thranduil rushed out of the cave.

Legolas was nowhere in the Halls, and some said he had gone out with the patrol.

Three hours later, he learned that his son had been taken.

 


	2. Pleased and unpleasant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood! Blood everywhere! Nyahahahaha!  
> Oh, excuse me.  
> There it is, chapter two. Everyone get to Middle-Earth. I'm warning you, there will be a few chapters before catching up with the fellowship.

**TA 3017, November**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**The forest**

 

Legolas shot down an orc, and another, and another. Orc, goblin, warg, goblin, warg, orc, goblin. An arrow in the forehead, another in the eye. Evade, knife, strike, kill, aim, back away, to the side, strike, aim, kill.

There were too many attackers for it to be a mere coincidence. This many orcs didn't come into Mirkwood out of their own free will. They feared the spiders as much as they were wary of the silvan elves of the Woodland Realm.

Both might not have been serving the same side in the war between the free people of Arda and Sauron, but both were still content enough to kill intruding orcs. The elves, because orcs were one of Morgoth's abominations, and they reminded them of what the fallen Vala had done to their people. And because orcs had no claim about killing elves, of course. Spiders because, well, it wasn't often they got something to eat that wasn't a lost hare, for elves were difficult to capture, and orcs were tasty, or at least, so the spiders thought. Loyalty wasn't exactly what motivated them in the war, and anyway they helped Sauron only because he had promised them food. They were Shelob's children, after all. Not some servants of the Dark Lord. Even if they had to admit they didn't want to be on his bad side.

Anyway, the point was, orcs rarely came into Eryn Galen without a good reason, and that many orcs surely hadn't come to admire the view.

Legolas ducked an attack from behind and spun on his left heel, gutting the offending attacker with two swift moves of his knives.

The elf glanced at the members of the patrol, and was relieved to see everyone still standing.

He had come with the warriors to keep his mind away from his father's mood swings. He guessed he had done well, because considering the numbers of invaders, one more fighter could do no harm.

A warg, and how in Valinor had the orcs managed to get the beasts into the forest, he had no idea, but they were still there so he'd better take care of it, jumped to his throat, but the Elvenprince of Mirkwood swang his bow into the side of the giant wolf, efficiently sending it in a spiderweb.

He had come back from his travels only two months before, and already he wished to go back on the roads, with Aragorn perhaps, or alone if the ranger wasn't to pass by the Woodland Realm before soon. His father had grown worse over the years, and Legolas simply couldn't take it anymore. Even battling orcs and other monsters was a better prospect than to spend more than one hour with Thranduil, when the said Elvenking wasn't shut down in his secret cave.

Sometimes, the prince had the feeling his father could hardly look him in the eyes these days.

Legolas grabbed a branch above him and pulled himself up. His body followed and the elf found himself upside down, hands on the branch, feet in the air. He fell back. But on the other side of the branch, and right onto the skull of an orc who had come after him. For once he wished he wasn't as light, and weighted as much as a man, for it'd have creaked the monster's head open. But he didn't, and so he had to split said head open with his knife.

A threatening hiss caught his attention, and Legolas looked around, alarmed that spiders might have joined the ranks of the orcs and goblins.

His eyes traveled to his fellow fighters, and he knew he had been played.

They were busy fighting off spiders, sure.

But they weren't the ones in immediate danger. Or, as much as not being in immediate danger was possible when in a fight with wargs, goblins, orcs and spiders.

Legolas almost flew backward as he shot three arrows in a row. Two spiders backed away, and two orcs fell to the ground. He'd have been content with himself, if he had had the time to think about it. After all, he had just got the orcs with only one arrow, that stuck out of one's eye on a side, and of the other's mouth on the other side. Not unusual per se, because it did happen that he got two enemies with one shot, but good enough, yet. But as much as he liked to do prowess in battle, the elf aso knew it wasn't a good thing to gloat during the battle itself. He stored the memory with many others of the same kind, to remember later on, when there wouldn't be dozens of enemies around.

But that wasn't the point of his observations.

The point was, that the warriors had been drifted away from him, and Legolas was certain it wasn't only bad luck. More likely, the monsters had singled him out for some reason, and they were after him, not really caring about the other elves. It wasn't very hard to figure out which reason could have gotten him the honor of being the day's victim.

He was Legolas Greenleaf, yes. He was a good fidghter, and a foe of Sauron's servants in general. But more than that, he was Legolas Thranduilion, prince of Greenwood the Great.

Orcs and their like weren't known to be great tacticians or particularly clever in the use of their prisoners. To be one could mean only two things: either the unfortunate soul would soon face the worst ordeals, or someone frightening enough that the orcs were obeying them was behind it all.

And since Legolas was apparently their target of choice, it wasn't just to enjoy torturing one elf or another that the abominations were trying to make him prisoner.

Unless they had been ordered to just plainly kill him. It was a possibility, too.

But in the end, it meant only one thing: dead or alive, they were after him, and him alone.

The Elvenprince fought with renewed ardor as soon as he realized that.

Legolas heard two goblins trying to surprise him by stricking him from behind. He turned around, severing a warg's head with both his knives as he did so. His right leg flew to one of the goblins' throat, and the monster finished his life by colliding roughly with one of Mirkwood's trees. His neck had been completely crushed by the kick.

This was one of the reasons the elf had chosen bow and knives as his weapons. It allowed him to do about anything he could think of with his body, whereas a sword was very good and all, but he always found it lacked freedom.

The other goblin looked at his opponent, stunned for an instant, before he snarled angrily and tried to go with his sword for the leg that was holding his fellow plunderer's body against a trunk. Legolas, having just freed his knives from the warg's carcass, swang one to the goblin's head as he brought his leg down, preceding the monster's sword by seconds only. The goblin fell to the ground as the blade left his brain.

Before Legolas even got the time to turn around, a warg who had lost its rider attacked him. The elf kept the beast at bay, but failed to notice the overly large spider that slipped down its thread just above his head.

The hiss gave it away.

Too late, though.

Legolas felt a stinging pain in his back.

Then he felt nothing.

The Elvenprince fell to the ground. His face was waxen, and the fabric from his coat was torn were the spider's sting had gotten him.

Two orcs came closer, wary, to make sure he was truly out. One of them tried to hit him on the head, just to make sure, but the other angrily clicked his tongue to the idiot.

“He said not to damage the elf beyond what was necessary. Meaning, beside fighting wounds, nothing is allowed. Do you want to end up as one of his experiments?”

The other orc grunted something that could vaguey pass for an answer. The first one rolled his eyes.

“'Thought so. Now, come on, we have to take him back to the lair and do what Sharkû said.”

Both orcs managed to lift the Elvenprince without further endangering his life, which, given the number of sharp or / and pointy things they had on them, was quite a feet, and they disappeared in the dark of the forest, unnoticed by the patrol guards still fighting a few dozens of feet away.

When the elves finally got rid of the last warg, they took a few seconds to rest before attending to the wounded and checking that everyone was accounted for.

There were no deaths this time either, but they knew it still happened more and more often. It was only the first half of November, and this month already counted two dead amongst their ranks. It wasn't a lot, given the whole of Arda's situation, but they were elves. Where they lost two lives, the race of Men lost ten of them, and as did the dwarves. The beornings were still another matter, but even for them, it was still some four or five lives lost.

The patrol's captain sighed heavily as one of his elves took care of the gash on his forearm.

“ _I wish Tauriel was still here... She was a good captain.”_

“ _Don't worry, you are good at this too. And she might be dead, for all we know. No one has seen her in decades, now.”_

The elf who had answered this and the captain turned their heads to look at their prince, fearing they had brought up unwanted memories. It wasn't a secret that Legolas Tranduilion's heart had started to warm up for the read-headed captain only a couple of decades before she herself had felt the pull of love, for a dwarf, no less, and not for the said prince. The dwarf had died, Tauriel had left Mirkwood for an undefinite time, and no one had seen her since.

Some said it was for the best. Both the prince's and the former captain's loves hadn't had the time to become too strong, too deep. They would both still be able to love someone else, if it came to it. It hadn't reached that stage, in elven love, when one was wasted for anyone else beside their loved one. And the Elvenking wouldn't have taken too well to his son's wedding a nando. He would have relented, in the end, because there was nothing like elven love, but he wouldn't have liked it any better. Thranduil was a sinda, and no matter what his son said, Legolas Greenleaf was one too.

At least, the captain and the guard tried to look at their prince.

They didn't quite achieve that.

Because the prince wasn't with them.

In fact, he was nowhere to be seen.

At first, no one believed it. The Elvenprince was such a good fighter it was always an event when he was wounded during battle. After the battle for Erebor, it had been said one of Azog's offsprings had managed to make him bleed. At first, everybody had thought it ridiculous. One single orc? Then the prince had left Mirkwood, and they hadn't had confirmation it had happened until much later.

Panic started to rise amongst the patrol. They didn't know if they were supposed to feel better or worse that they didn't find their prince amongst the dead orcs, spiders and wargs, since that also meant that he was alive, but there was a high probability that he had been taken away.

When it became obvious it was what had happened, after all, what were the odds that the Elvenprince had just gone on a walk without warning anyone after an attack?, the patrol captain paled drastically and ordered someone to go warn the king while they started tracking down the orcs.

 

 

**The orcs' lair**

 

When Legolas woke up from his unconsciousness, the first thing he saw wasn't actually a thing. Everything was pitch black.

He soon noticed he felt strangely heavy, slowed down, as if he had just taken a sleeping potion as the one the healers made for the heavily wounded warriors. Himself, he had had one only twice in his one thousand eight hundred and ninety years of life. But he knew the feeling. It wasn't exactly that... but it was still the same kind of feeling.

Legolas took a deep breath, and regretted it. The air was foul.

_Yrch._

He tried to sit up, but his hands and feet were tied, and he didn't have a very good control of his body. The spider's sting, of which he was suddenly reminded by the cold air against his skin where his coat had been torn apart, and by the pain of the wound, still incapacitated him, it seemed.

Well.

At least he was alive, he tried to think positively. It was hard, given he knew what could be done to prisoners, and even harder since he knew he had been taken with a particular purpose, even if he didn't know what purpose exactly. Knowing that once he wouldn't be useful anymore to the orcs, nothing guaranteed he would even by killed quickly wasn't helping either. Knowing that being useful could only mean causing someone else's fall was the worst, of course.

Before him where two possilities: being useful, and dying an awful death, or refusing to do / answer / whatever they wanted of him and spending an eternity as an orcs' torture toy, as long as he'd refuse.

Legolas resigned himself to an eternity of torture, hoping that at least, what they wanted of him was something he could refuse. If it was just about showing him around to anger his father, there was nothing he would be able to do about it, and it would still affect Mirkwood and those he cared for.

The Elvenprince forced himself to breath, in and out, and to relax, despite the situation. Being tensed would be a good thing if he could actually use his limbs as he wanted. It wasn't the case.

Legolas looked around, as his eyes adapted to the darkness of the place he was in. It seemed it was underground, in some sort of lair that the orcs had built under a great oak, if the roots he could distinguish were anything to go by. The room was circular, large enough, with a ground of beaten earth and walls supported by a wooden structure. So far as he could see, he was alone. The feint glow that escaped his skin in the dark helped a bit, he had to say.

He guessed this was a hiding spot just outside the Woodland Realm, for when orcs couldn't do otherwise but to go trough Mirkwood.

If he ever got out of here, he'd have to talk about it to his father, who would destroy the orc-built place with great pleasure.

Voices could be heard, somewhere behind he door he could make out with difficulty in the dark. Legolas tried to ignore the unpleasant feeling the orcs' voices were creating in him, and listened intently. They were speaking in Westron, so they were probably not from the same tribes. Another hint that they were working for someone.

“Wait, are you actually saying there will be not only one of him, but two?”

This made no sense to the elf, and to the sound of the orc's voice, it didn't make any sense either to the monster. How could there be two of one person?

“If you had listened when Sharkû told us our orders, you'd know that's exactly what it implied. Two of him, if not more. We could not be lucky, and have to try several times before getting the right one.”

“I listened. Only, I didn't understand a word he was saying.”

“That's because you're an idiot. Now, shut up. We have work to do.”

Legolas inwardly thought that yes, the orc was an idiot if he wasn't even able to understand something another orc could understand. But who was this “Sharkû”?

A door creaked open, and the light of a torch blinded the elf for an instant. When he could see again, two orcs were standing over him. They weren't pleasant to look at, that was saying the least. The taller one had greyish skin, yellow eyes and half his face looked like burned ham. The smaller one was scrawny, and his orange eyes were way too large for his head. Then again, they were orcs, so it was to be expected.

The smaller one smiled evily, and Legolas somehow knew on the spot he was the one who had understood the order. His guess was soon confirmed, when the monster started talking.

“See that? Our princeling has woken up! I hope he took a good nap, because we're going to make him very tired. Now, make him sit up, you oaf.”

The other one, apparently used to the insults, just obeyed, yanking Legolas up.

“Like that?”

The smaller one rolled his huge orange eyes.

“Yes, like that. How else would you want him to sit up? Nevermind, you're too stupid. Now, princeling, it will certainly hurt, but this is for your own good, so don't fight me off.”

The orc smirked, apparently very pleased with his brand of humor.

The taller one, on the other hand, didn't seem to understand the joke, and stupidly asked how this was going to be good for the elf's health, and why they were doing him this favor, seeing as he was an enemy and all. Legolas almost rolled his eyes as the other orc did exactly that, snapping at the same time.

“Of course it isn't. I'm taunting him, but you're ruining it! So shut up, and don't ask questions.”

Then the orc looked back at the elf, and showed him what looked like a dagger with three black diamonds on its handle. It looked way too much like a morgul craft for Legolas to admire it.

“Now, I don't know why you are special, princeling, it it would appear you're not just some elf. The Witch King himself came to our master and asked for you to be delivered to Mordor unscathed.”

At that, the taller orc whined.

“Yeah, and we had to walk all the way from...”

“Shut up, he doesn't need to know that. What was I saying? Oh right. Mostly unscathed, because before getting you to the Great Eye, we have to do something that might not be pleasant for you. The Witch King gave our master this beauty, and said we'd have to trace some runs with your blood. It's some kind of magical tool, you know, and apparently it will open some sort of link between you and another person, a man he said, but an immortal one, as strange as it may seem. It will bring him here, with maybe a few other people as a side effect, and apparently his coming will trigger something good for the Great Eye.”

Legolas tried to remain composed, but this was insane. First, Sauron wanted him, especially, and second, he was needed for something that would benefit the Dark Lord? Then, there was the matter of an immortal man that would be linked to him in some way...

His upper lip twitched a bit, but the orc was too busy coveting the black dagger to notice.

After a time, the orc looked back at Legolas and went on talking again. Apparently, he liked the sound of his own voice. The elf couldn't understand why, though, because it was mostly an unnerving, creaking sound. Still, he wasn't going to complain. At least, he got some information thanks to the orc's flaw.

“Of course, our master asked in what it would benefit him, to work for the Great Eye. The Witch King offered him the dagger, and the man's heart to experiment on.”

Legolas felt a shiver ran down his spine as the orc cackled madly. Whoever this man was, he was going to be pulled into this orcs' lair and killed by the taking of his heart because of him and their link.

“The Witch King also warned our master that when we'd try to summon the immortal man here, it might end up bringing other 'you' before he comes. Oh, yes, I forget about that: it seems the link there is between you two is because you are the same person, only in different times / worlds / whatever. Well, he also talked about brothers, but it was strange, and he didn't seem to mean it as in 'by blood', so your guess is as good as mine; I'd say 'ours', but this idiot who's keeping you sat up is, unmistakably, an idiot, so his guess doesn't count. And you know what? The other 'you' that aren't the immortal man or yourself, and the people we might drag in without meaning it, we get the right to keep them for dinner!”

That was it, the elf wanted to trow up, now. He had no idea how this was possible, what exactly it all meant, but there were a lot of people that would die today because he hadn't been able to defend himself properly.

Being eaten by orcs... One of the worst nightmares that were.

This time, the orc had finished talking. The taller one, on the other hand, had a question to ask.

“Just, how will we know which one is the immortal one, Guruck? I mean, even the immortals can be killed, unless they are... them, you know. And we can't wait for years to see which one is the one that doesn't age. Can we?”

For once, the smaller orc didn't snap at his fellow monster.

No, he smiled brightly, and Legolas got the best view of his rotten teeth and black tongue.

“That's the best part, Kirch! When they'll get transported here, each of the 'other' princelings will do so with a distinctive sign. And the one we search for, he'll appear with a great dread and a feeling of death. Fitting, isn't it, for an immortal whose fate is to have his heart ripped out?”

And the monster burst out laughing madly.

 

 

**The forest**

 

An elven guard crouched down, unsure of what he had seen. He broke the spider web that was hindering his sight, and called for his captain.

“ _See, they got rid of the prince's weapons on the way.”_

What had caught his eye had been a glint of light on the Elvenprince's knives.

Not far away from his position, another elf called out. He had found their prince's bow.

“ _Strange... Usually, they keep everything that can be used as a weapon for themselves... Though, knowing Legolas, he'd be able to get them back and free himself if his weapons were anywhere near him, so I guess they did well... That is, well for them, not for the prince or us... I don't want to go back to the Halls... I'm so dead...”_

After a while, the guards had stopped listening to their captain's mumbling. If he wanted to give them orders, he'd do it speaking normally. No one needed a reminder that they were going to suffer the Elvenking's wrath if they didn't get his son back. They were content enough that they hadn't been the one to take the piece of news to the Halls.

They had finally spotted a track that seemed to have been used both way, in and out of the part of Mirkwood that was the Woodland Realm, and there was no mistaking that it was a fresh path made by orcs. The smell was enough of a tell-tale.

Finding the Elvenprince's weapons was another.

They went on searching, until they found what looked like a little clearing where the sun peered through the lack of trees. The captain made everyone stop with a single and silent gesture.

He squinted.

He had a better sight than any mortal, being an elf, he could see miles and miles ahead when the view wasn't blocked by anything, true. But there were always things that came in the way. A trunk behind which someone can hide. The trap that is a mirror. Or, in this case, the limit between shadow and light.

But the captain was certain of what he had seen. That is, he was certain he had seen something, and the something looked much like an orc. It could have been a dead trunk with a strange form, that looked like an orc.

Or not.

There, standing just before the light, in the shadows, was an orc. An orc, who wasn't moving much. As in, alive, but standing guard of something. In fact, the monster certainly seemed to be a sentry.

“ _If there is a sentry...”_

A red-haired ellon next to the captain finished his sentence in his stead.

“ _Then there is something to guard. Do we kill him and go on searching?”_

“ _No. We walk in between light and shadow, as he does, and we take him in silence. I'm sure a bit of persuasion will lead him to talk to us about where they took our prince.”_

There was something grim on the captain's face as he said these words, and no one asked what he meant by persuasion.

Soon enough, two elves had reached the lone sentry by their right, while two others had done so by their left. Hiding behind the trees, they waited for the signal.

The remaining guards of the patrol walked in the light of the clearing, the captain in the front. The four elves that had gone first saw the sentry's eyes widen, and him turn around, surely ready to run in silence and warn his company of the coming of the patrol before the guards could see him.

Too bad for him, he had already been seen.

Before the orc even got to make one step, two arrows flew to each of his ankles from both his right and left. He let out a strangled cry as he fell down on his face. When he tried to get back up, his hands reaching to the arrows stinking out of his marred flesh, two elves were there, one keeping him to the ground, the other putting a blade against his throat.

“One sound, _orch_ , one scream, and this sword pierce your hide just enough for it to be a painful death by exsanguination.”

The monster didn't even bother answering, fearing it to count as one sound even if it wasn't a scream.

The elven captain crouched on his heels next to the guards' victim. Still, he wasn't looking at him, but rather at the blade that was already nicking his grey skin.

“You and your comrades, or maybe it is you or your comrades, I don't care much, have entered our land and taken away our prince. Now there is only one punishment for such a hostile behavior, and that is death. But you still have a choice: either you tell us where Legolas Thranduilion has been taken to, and possibly why, and I give you a quick, painless death, or you refuse to cooperate, and we'll take you to see Thranduil Oropherion. And I can assure you that if anything happens to his son, the Elvenking will find a way to make you suffer enough that you'll call for your master.”

The elf's steely gaze had followed the blade to the orc's neck as he talked, and the captain was now looking at his prisoner's face.

Elves could be frightening to the common mortal because of the instant change they could bring in their behavior. A joyful elf was as innocent as a child, but when they became serious, it was impossible to read their faces if they didn't want anyone to. During times of war, the mortals only saw this side of the elves, and to them, it looked like they weren't made of feelings like men or dwarves.

To an orc, it was frightening, because they had no idea about how their enemies kept such a cold exterior. Orcs were creatures of anger and hatred. The more cruel and ruthless they were, the more they were feared. But elves, most of the time, didn't react.

Of course, since they were being of wrath and blood lust, no orc stayed long stricken by the fear they felt. Usually, anger took over in a matter of seconds.

This orc couldn't, because if he even tried to open his mouth and insult his captors, the sword would cut his throat open.

He didn't like the idea of pain when it was applied to him, and not him applying it to others. He'd rather cooperate, if that kept him away from the Elvenking. He was no fool. He knew the stories, and he knew that Thranduil Oropherion wasn't one to anger too much.

Of course, he didn't like the idea of death when it was applied to him, and not him being the one applying it, either. But there was no chance he'd get out of this, and since he had to choose between a painless and a painful death...

“We were ordered to capture him as soon as we'd get an opportunity. I don't know why, but it seems the Great Eye wants him especially. Guruck is our chief, he's the one who knows. They've taken him to the lair. It's a hidden tunnel under an old oak, some three miles ahead. You'll have to deal with a sentry every mile, more or less. Now, your word.”

The captain arched an eyebrow at the orc, as if to judge whether or not the monster was truly thinking he would go back on it. He was an elf, not an orc.

“I keep my word. A quick, painless death.”

And he gestured to the guard who held the sword to the orc's throat. The ellon withdrew his weapon, only to swiftly cut off the monster's head.

The guards all looked at their captain, waiting for his orders.

“ _Very well. We go. If we have to deal with the sentries and to find where exactly that oak is, it might take us an hour. We can't lose more time. Let's only hope we haven't lost too much time already.”_

 

 

**The orcs' lair**

 

Legolas bit back a scream that tasted of blood as the tip of the dagger entered his skin once again.

He had bitten his tongue the first time the weapon had cut him, for the blade was definitely morgul-made. He didn't know what it was exactly, but it hurt a lot. Each time the orc started carving a rune in his flesh, the elf felt as if he was being branded with hot iron. If he was certain of one thing, it was that he wouldn't ever really heal from those.

It could have been worse, though. Instead of elven runes with elven meanings, it could have been Black Speech. The Elvenprince of Greenwood the Great, walking around with seared Black Speech formulas on the back of his hands, his forearms, and his heart! Legolas didn't fancy wearing gloves and long sleeves all year around, and he would never have dared to sail to Valinor in this state.

That is, considering that he'd get free, somehow.

The pain called him back to his desperate situation. He was bleeding mildly from the first fours ets of runes, and the one that was presently being made was the one on his torso, above his heart. His coat and shirt were lying on the ground, three feet away from him.

This rune was, he hoped, the last one.

But more importantly, he hoped the orc had done something wrong, that it wouldn't work, and that no one else than himself would have to suffer in this room. It was possible, after all. Trusting an orc to trace elven runes, it was like giving the monster a baby to take in his arms and hope he would still be alive one hour later.

But Guruck seemed pleased with himself, when he took one step back to admire his work, swinging the black dagger left and right absent-mindedly. Legolas hoped he would end up stabbing himself with it, even if it was a foolish hope.

“Isn't it better, Kirch? Don't you think the princeling looks much better covered in blood? No, don't answer, I don't want to hear your voice. Now, you chain him to the wall, and you let go. I can't say for sure how the 'others' will appear, and it might be better if we just stay out of the way.”

Legolas glimpsed the taller of the two orcs reaching for some dark form hanging from the nearest wall, and he guessed these were the chains the smaller one had talked about. Soon, he was chained, back against the wall, and almost unable to move.

After ten long seconds, Kirch turned to Guruck.

“And now?”

The smaller orc shot an annoyed glance to his idiot of a comrade, who continued to look dumbly at him. Kirch apparently had no idea how strongly he was annoying his chief.

“Now we wait.”

Kirch squinted, apparently thinking hard.

“What do we wait for?”

Guruck rolled his orange eyes before answering.

“For it to begin, stupid oaf. Shut up.”

They waited another ten seconds, and Legolas began to hope, that, maybe, it really hadn't wor...

His back arched all on its own, and the prince felt his muscles contract one after another, as if they had decided, without informing him beforehand, that they would try to rip the chains out of the walls now. He felt hot beyond what was tolerable even for an elf. He started sweating, which was not something elves did.

Then the pain disappeared from his limbs, only to muster into the freshly made and cauterized wounds on his skin. The burned tissue that had formed quickly once the dagger had been removed burst open, and blood started to flow again, this time creating a pool at his feet.

The orcs were watching, fascinated, as the elf bled out on the lair's ground.

At one point, Legolas couldn't even look up anymore, as his strength escaped his body. His chin fell on his torso, and his eyes fell on the small pool of blood.

The bleeding receded until the wounds closed on their own once again.

The scarlet pool was perfectly round.

Guruck told the taller orc to stay behind, and walked closer, until he could dip the edge of the dagger in the blood. Legolas' eyes traveled up the blade, as did the blood, to what would have been his utter astonishement if he hadn't felt weak and nauseous. The red liquid was going up on its own.

The elf somehow managed to raise his head a bit, and he looked for a long time at the dagger. Now that he could have a good look at it, all drenched in his blood...

There was something...

Something familiar...

Guruck took one step back, and sliced the air between him and Legolas.

The Elvenprince closed his eyes and felt disgustingly warm drops of his own blood splattering his face. When he opened them again, the air where the black dagger had been swung looked somewhat distorted, and crimsonish.

“As soon as someone appear, Kirch, you get his hands and tie him up.”

The taller orc only had the time to nod before a dark scarlet flash occulted everything in the already dark room. It was as if, even though the torches were still alight, their light couldn't go through the red mist.

At the same time, a dozen of animals' screams resonated in the underground room. Squirrel, horse, eagle, but also something that sounded like a cat's purr, but was much louder, and the sound of an olyphant, for exemple.

It only lasted an instant.

And then Legolas heard a loud sound, but he couldn't see anything.

It took a whole minute for the scarlet mist, that wasn't actually a mist, since it had no materiality, but still looked like one, to dissipate.

Eventually, the elf distinguished the form of a man on whom the orc had pratically jumped, and another form, surely one of those “side effects”, that seemed to be of the race of men too, though...

“ _Que vient-il de se passer? Où sommes-nous? Balian, es-tu là?”_

A woman. There was no mistaking that voice for a man's, even if Legolas couldn't understand a word of what she was asking, besides the fact that she was obviously asking something and seemed completely lost. Figure. He'd be too, if he was transported from one place to another without an explanation or a warning.

The man grunted in pain. Guruck, who had prudently stayed away while the other orc had wrestled the unknown man to the ground, grabbed the woman and threatened her with a knife so that she'd keep quiet. Soon, she was hands and feet tied, and indignantly glaring at the pair of monsters before her. Legolas wondered if she had never seen an orc, to react like that, or if she was simply brave, because even to someone who would know nothing of orcs, Kirch and Guruck looked bad enough to at least make anyone hesitate to glare at them. If anything, she seemed to have enough sense not to ask any more questions. It would irk the orcs, and irked orcs weren't good for tied up people.

A dull sound took the elf's attention back to the man with an orc in top of him, that wasn't actually on top of the man anymore, Kirch having somehow managed to tie the man up too.

Guruck came to the two, and the elf could do nothing but to watch as the orc grabbed the man's dark hair and pulled his head up.

“Not the right one, that's sure, this wasn't a feeling of death. But look at him!”

The orc grinned a pestiferous smile at the elf chained before Kirch, the man and himself. Balian's eyes took on a shocked look as soon as he saw the state of the one who seemed to be another prisoner of the place, however he and Sibylla had ended up here all of a sudden.

There was literally a pool of blood on the floor, and the person looked so exhausted the only reason he wasn't falling forward was that the chains were almost tearing him apart.

The being, that to Balian looked like a demon would, holding his hair, and the one that had almost broken his back by falling upon him as soon as he had somehow appeared in this... cave, weren't reassuring either.

“There surely is a family likeness!”

And the orc went back to cackling madly. But the Elvenprince wasn't paying him any attention.

Legolas' eyes widened as he took in the looks of the man.

They looked so much alike they could have been brothers, if he had been a man and not an elf, or the other way around, and if they hadn't had different hair and eyes colors.

And in a strange, incomprehensible way, the orc's words rang a bell somewhere in the elf's mind, as if, in fact, he truly felt that he had to be the man's brother, even if it made no sense at all.

Guruck tossed the man aside, next to the woman who glared at him twice more fiercely than before. From his position, and tired as he was, Legolas couldn't see, or, more accurately, notice, anything else.

Balian, on the other hand, was perfectly fine, though a bit shocked at the events and tied up with his wife. He watched in horror as he saw a black blade in the demonic being's hand, being soaked in blood and waved around, splashing some red life liquid on the blond person's head as he did so, and creating some kind of crimson distortion in the air.

The blacksmith shared a look with his wife, and hardly noticed she was once again in her lady garb, when they had both been back to a simple life in France only minutes before.

Once again, the room went suddenly without light, and they could all hear distinctly a bowstring snapping three times. When the darkness disappeared, Balian, Legolas, Sibylla and the two orcs were looking at three people who seemed completely confused too. The two french people guessed what had happened to them was exactly what had happened to the three that stood there...

And who were immediately grabbed by the two orcs.

Legolas felt despair invade his heart. Were all these people going to die because of him? How many more to come, still? How many people had he condemned to death, when he had failed to defend himself?

Kirch quickly restrained the older man, who, to his surprise, only looked at him as if he was assessing the danger he represented, and not moving away in fear or disgust. Guruck grabbed both of the young ones' wrists, waiting for his idiot subordinate to come and tie them up too. They didn't seem to be great fighters, even if the young man who shared the two others' face had a bow, and what looked like some kind of armor on. The young woman, if anything, seemed terrified and completely unable to defend herself.

Paris tried to shake the thing who had taken a hold of him off as soon as he saw the terror on his sister's face, and the way she had started to mumble under her breath.

“ _Let my sister be, you monster! Cassandra, calm down, nothing bad will happen, you'll see.”_

No one besides the three new people in the room understood a word of what had just been said, but Sibylla frowned. These garbs, and this language... Were these people greek, perhaps? But why did the young man look so much like her husband?

“Still not the good one. Don't care, the more tries it takes, the more we get to eat!”

It was only because of her education as a princess that the former Queen of Jerusalem only paled. She had spent the last months with english people, as they were trying to claim back Jerusalem, and even if her accent wasn't perfect, she could understand what was said without difficulty. She had no idea what that demon was, but she thought it'd be better if she pretended she didn't understand. Keeping things out of the enemy's knowledge was something that often benefited a prisoner.

If she could get an opening, or give someone else one... Maybe they could escape what seemed to be their fate, now that they were trapped with those two beings.

Sibylla's calculating eyes didn't escape Odysseus' attention. The Greek had no idea how he had ended up here with a prince and a princess of Troy, when he had been on his ship only minutes before, heading back to Ithaca. But he was far from being a fool, and knew very well that they were in danger. Not only him, not only the two children of Priam, but all of them, except the two that looked like they were right out of Hades' Tartarus. These two were the danger.

And even if Odysseus couldn't speak their language, the way the woman with colorful clothing had paled told him she did, and it wasn't good.

As if the person chained to the wall and bleeding here and there from strange brands burned into his flesh hadn't been enough of a hint.

Odysseus watched in calm and silence, working on his ties, with little success he had to admit.

The richly clothed woman and the man who surprisingly looked like an older version of the prince Paris had matching rings, but didn't look much alike. The reasons for such rings could be that they were from the same family, or had created their own family. He guessed they were husband and wife.

As for the trojan prince, he was busy staring at his lookalike, who himself looked warily at the two beings, as if waiting for something to happen.

Cassandra of Troy looked about to break down, and Odysseus remembered how it had been said she had predicted the fall of her city... and no one had listened to her. With Aeolus as a grandfather and Hermes as a great-grandfather, Odysseus could hardly say there was no truth in the reality of the gods. Maybe the young woman had been gifted.

If it was truly the case, he'd better watch out. She seemed so shaken she could very well be seeing a particularly grim future for all of them.

Before he got to think about it in more details, the Ithacan saw the smaller of the two beings dip a black and ominous dagger into the blood at the blond's feet, and swing it in the air, causing it to become darker, reddish, and definitely magically altered.

Well, now he had a theory as to how they had ended up here, even if he still had no idea why.

Everything went dark once again, but the sound that was heard next made Legolas' blood freeze. There was the noise of crackling fire... and a powerful dragon's roar.

Everybody stilled in the darkness as they heard it, and not only the elf who was the only one who had ever seen and heard a living dragon. Kirch and Guruck tightened their grip on their weapon, just in case this time's “side effect” happened to have scales and to breath fire.

But when the light claimed its rights to lit the room back, there was only a man standing in front of the chained elf, and not even one “side effect”. Seeing that, the orcs rushed to him, and as if to make him pay their fright, Guruck twisted both of the man's arms while the taller orc came with yet another rope.

“Still not the right one. But look, Kirch, this one has already been beaten up. You could almost not say their likeness with the state he is in.”

And indeed, even Legolas could see, from his uncomfortable position, that under the dark curls, the man's face was purple with bruises and scratched in several places. It almost made the elf feel he wasn't so badly off, considering what had surely been done to the man to get him in this state.

Almost. It was hard to think otherwise when he had lost so much blood.

But apparently, the man didn't seem to care, and even better, he spoke in Westron.

“If you were expecting someone else, maybe you could just let me go, don't you think?”

The orcs were so baffled at the man's words that Kirch stopped the tying he was doing on the arms to look up. The man suddenly spun around, and headbutted the orc with all his might.

The ugly monster wobbled backwards before falling to the ground, but unfortunately for Brian, the smaller one was still there, and punched him in the guts. Brian spluttered some blood on the hideous thing as he was being tossed against a wall, next to a man in antique garb.

Kirch got back on his feet and growled at the bruised man, but Guruck stopped him from killing him.

“Later, oaf. We still have work to do.”

The smaller orc wiped off the blood he had in one eye and looked at the man. He was surprised to see him smiling a bloody grin.

“Sorry for that. I'm still a mess from the last time someone tried to kill me.”

He didn't sound sorry at all, Sibylla thought, but anything that unnerved their captors could be used, so she wasn't going to get angry for that. The man really looked like he was a mess.

What happened after that was the same as always. The dagger, the blood, the darkness.

After the dragon's roar, Legolas thought there was nothing that could shock him anymore of the strange sounds that happened each time another person was summoned to the underground cave.

He was wrong.

So wrong.

This time, there wasn't a sound.

But at the same time, they all had the impression they could hear the screams of hundreds of dying men and women. A heavy weight settled in everyone's throat, making it seemingly hard to breath, and the youngest in the room, Paris and Cassandra, felt the panic overcome the composure they had regained with difficulty during the last minutes. It was as if they were underwater, and couldn't breath, and knew they were going to die. It was as if they were on the battlefield, and they were seeing the blade coming for their necks in the corner of their eyes, and they knew there was no way they would evade or block that blow. It was as if they were sentenced to death, and waiting for the executioner to come in.

Legolas and the two orcs felt the death, and the dread, and they immediately understood who it was that had appeared this time. They understood, and the orcs were overjoyed, even if instinctively terified.

It was him.

The immortal man they had been searching for all along.

It was him, and their search had ended. Soon, Guruck, Kirch, and all the other orcs that were waiting outside of the room, standing guard for some, would have a banquest of human flesh to feast upon. They just had to tie up the man and his “side effects”, and they would be free to eat as they wanted, and to do what they did best: cause fear and misfortune in Middle-Earth.

 

 

**Mordor**

**Barad-dûr**

 

The Dark Lord entered his quarters, thinking back on the last skirmishes with Gondor. It was time he crushed that country for real. If only he knew where his ring was...

A loud thud caught his attention, and Sauron walked to Ellduath's room to see what it was all about.

As soon as he entered the room, and he saw the shadow sitting in an armchair pulsating with malevolence, the Dark Lord understood.

As if to confirm his toughts, an otherwordly, dark, screeching voice that would have been unbearable to someone who wasn't used to the Nazgûl, talked.

“ _They are here at last. All of them.”_

Sauron smiled, but the expression it made on his handsome face was more like a painful wince than anything else. He had long forgotten how to express his feelings. Or maybe it was because he didn't have pure, real feelings anymore.

Who cared?

One of his best weapons would soon be complete.

 

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**The orcs' lair**

 

The two orcs almost jumped on the four people that had appeared in the room, as soon as they could see farther than one foot away. In the confused time that followed, Legolas heard two women's screams, but they both seemed more angry than scared of the monsters. One of the four couldn't defend himself at all, which was a pity, because with their superior number they could have overcome their attackers and freed the others. But the man had, as soon as he had appeared, fallen to the ground, dying. No one would be angered with him, considering he had a wooden pole in his stomach, and he certainly hadn't eaten it.

At one point, the blond woman saw the man lying on the floor. Her eyes widened, and she threw her attacker away as if he was made of wool to go to the dying man. She hesitated only an instant, before getting the wood out of the wound and pressing her hands against it to stop the flow of blood. Elizabeth knew it wasn't exactly how if should have been done, but she was no physician, and she certainly didn't have the tools to treat the commodore... admiral... James. She only hoped he wasn't beyond saving yet.

Meanwhile, the other woman, dark skinned, had been incapacitated and tossed with the other prisoners, who only gave her a sad smile when she frowned at the situation. Anamaria had traveled across the world, but she had never been in such a strange and alarming situation. Considering she had battled cursed pirates, that meant something.

Still, she felt she had the right to insult anyone who dared to tie her without her consent. Not that she'd ever give it to anyone, true, but eitherway, she was already searching for insults worthy of the ugly faces of her captors.

Guruck turned to the blond woman as soon as he was done with the other one, but she snapped at him.

“No need to tie me up, I can't let go or he'll die. So leave me alone.”

Oddly enough, he felt he'd better obey. There was something about the woman's voice, as if she was used to giving orders, and he certainly felt she wasn't one to be crossed, despite the situation. He'd take care of her... later. Once he'd be done with the other man, who was the one he truly needed to subdue. Yeah, that's right. Later.

The orc was definitely not running away from a woman's wrath.

He'd come back later.

Beside, Kirch seemed to have difficulties dealing with the immortal man, who was almost done strangling him to death.

Needless to say the other people looked at the scene in wonder.

Guruck grabbed the discarded wooden pole and hit the man on the head, who let go of Kirch and fell to the ground. He wasn't unconscious, yet, because when both orcs went to tie him up, the man gave them a look that almost sent them back to picking daisies in the fields, even if they hadn't ever done such a thing.

At the sound of William's fall, Elizabeth looked up, and when she saw what had been done to the man she loved, she barely restrained herself from leaving Norrington there and murder the little monster. She had been waiting for the East Indian Company's attack those last hours, and was on edge. Instead, she glared so fiercely at the monstrous being's back he could have sworn he felt it without seeing it.

That last apparition had been rather chaotic, Odysseus had to say, but he had to admit that he had felt extremely good when the blond woman had snapped at the monster and when the man had almost succeeded in murdering the other one. Even the other woman had been difficult to handle for the two beasts. If they were to get out of here, the Ithacan was sure they wouldn't be a burden, even if there was one of them who seemed about to die.

While the demonic beings were busy tying up the man that looked like him, yes, another one, and yes, Balian had stopped being surprised at what happened this day, the former lord whispered to the woman what to do about the wound. He had been on enough battlefields to have an idea of what had to be done, and apparently, she understood him, even if she had been talking that other language, that, if he wasn't mistaken, sounded like English. Not that he could talk English, or even understand it. But he could recognize it.

As for Paris, the young prince was busy trying to calm his sister, whose eyes kept traveling from one of the lookalikes to another, and to the blond person that had been used to get them here from what he had understood, in great dread, not even paying attention to the two monsters, as if they didn't matter at all.

Brian, on the other hand, was using the mess created to discreetly undo the rope tying his feet. He had learned, when he had been no more than six years old, that escaping skills were as important as fighting skills, and now knew how to trick his bounds into being useless. The rope finally loosened around his ankles, and he managed to get it away. In case the room would come back into order, he brought his legs under him to hide the fact that the ties weren't there anymore. Then he started working on the bounds on his wrists.

The bruised man's actions failed to escape one person's notice, and it was Odysseus', who had almost gotten his own ties off, but couldn't do anything more, stuck. The greek king managed to catch the other man's eyes, and he looked down at his hands, before looking at his own.

Brian checked the monsters were still busy, and nodded discreetly.

At that moment, a scream led everybody to look back at the man the orcs were dealing with.

William had just bitten off two of Kirch's fingers, and was spitting them out of his mouth with disgust written all over his face.

“How can you even be alive? You seem to be as rotten as a corpse!”

Guruck stabbed the man with the black dagger to make him shut up. He didn't see, as he took out the blade, how the wound closed on its own, nor did he notice the discreet hissing that escaped the blade as it came into contact with Will's blood.

No one did, in fact, besides the two blacksmiths in the room, one of whom was the concerned person. Balian, on the other, only stared at the closing wound, not even surprised anymore, and certainly not trying to understand how that was possible. He was just glad that the man wasn't wounded anymore.

William, as for him, only glanced at the iron chest that had been pushed in the dark of the room during the fight. He didn't know how his heart had followed him to this place. Then again, he didn't know how he himself had ended up here, so it wasn't such an important question.

But it was a problem he'd rather not add to the current ones.

Will frankly hoped no one would notice the chest and look inside, just in case a beating heart out of its body freaked them out enough for them to stab it without asking for an explanation.

He also hoped no one besides Elizabeth and Norrington knew what they could do with it, or worst, what they could make him do with it. His two captors seemed unpleasant enough to use him to slaughter and pillage at will if they ever got their hands on his power.

In fact, he guessed they did that already, but wouldn't refuse a way to do it even more efficiently.

Guruck snarled at the immortal man, and turned to the furious Kirch who was holding his diminished and bloodied hand with the other one.

“Come, Kirch, I'll let you get rid of him. Just remember what the master said: you start by taking out the heart. After that, you can do whatever you want to his body for revenge.”

Will arched an eyebrow at that. If they tried to take his heart from the chest that was actually his, and not made of iron, they'd be in for a surprise.

Then an idea came to him, and he wondered if...

That's when he noticed all the other people tied up in the dark room, and the blond person chained to the wall. Until then, he had been too busy fighting off his attackers to truly take in his surroundings. Will stayed speechless as he saw the faces of Balian, Paris and Brian, who were looking at him more or less wide-eyed too.

The taller of the two orcs blocked his visual field, keeping him, by the same token, outside of the others' visual fields, except the blond person'. He was growling threateningly, and William had this crazy idea that he was meaning him harm.

After all, it wasn't as if the being looked like some kind of monster and had had two of his fingers severed by the _Dutchman_ 's captain.

Kirch took out a bone blade, and walked towards the man, intent on making him suffer as much as possible while he'd take out his heart.

Seeing that, Legolas tried to move and stop him, but he was still tightly chained, and even if he felt a bit better than before, he was still weakened by the blood loss. The best he managed to do was making his chains rattle.

From further away, Guruck laughed at the Elvenprince's futile attempt to interfere.

“Don't worry, elf, it will soon be your turn.”

The master and the Witch King had said “mostly unscathed”, after all. If the prisoner had one of two broken bones when delivered to Mordor, it wouldn't matter much, considering what was most likely going to happen to him afterwards, the orc thought with a pleased and unpleasant smile on his unsightly face.

Behind him, Anamaria, Elisabeth, Brian and Sibylla gasped a bit. Had the monster really called the person chained to the wall an elf?

“Hey, Guruck, that one has a huge scar just above his heart! Do you reckon we're not the first ones to try to take it out of him?”

The smaller orc laughed, thinking it wasn't great to be an immortal man when amongst mortals.

“Some people surely tried, eh! But you, you will succeed. So hurry up and do it.”

As for Elizabeth, she frowned in thoughts.

Will didn't have a scar on his heart.

Then again, James had been wounded days before, and there was no way he had survived for so long with this kind of wounds. Her theory was completely mad, but what wasn't about their current situation? Somehow, Anamaria, James, Will and herself had been taken out of their time and summoned to this place, but not from the exact same time of their life. From what she had seen, Will hadn't changed much between her time and his, but maybe there were a few weeks, or even a few months. It was possible the Will from her time would soon be wounded...

But this wasn't the time to think about it. The two monsters were going to kill Will, and she couldn't move without killing James...

Even if she loved Will more than anyone else, she couldn't just decide to let James die when she wasn't even sure she'd succeed in saving the love of her life. The two monsters weren't very tall, but unlike their corpse-like appearance that could lead someone to believe they were weak and degraded, Elizabeth could tell they were strong and dangerous.

Desperate, that was what the situation seemed to be.

But before the Pirate King got to make a choice, Kirch cut Will's scar open, sure that it would hurt more than a normal cut. The orc smiled, revealing his yellow teeth, and grabbed without delicacy the two sides of the now fresh wound.

Will bit his tongue as the monster's two thumbs entered his flesh to part it, opening his chest onto the place where his heart should have been. Even if it would not kill him, and he would heal in no time, it still hurt as much as if he had been a normal man.

Refraining from screaming earned him a glare, for the orc wanted to hear the pain he was inflicting. The captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ arched an eyebrow when he realized that, hardly believing it. What exactly were these creatures of evil?

Annoyed with the lack of reaction, Kirch ripped the flesh open as soon as his thumbs passed the rib cage, breaking two ribs while doing so. One of the broken bones pierced a lung. Warm blood bubbled out of the man's chest, and onto the orc's hands.

This time, Will couldn't help it; he screamed with pain so loudly that the second monster took a step back.

Luckily for him, only Kirch and Legolas saw what happened then. The others couldn't see what had happened, and never guessed what was really going on. They had understood they wanted to hurt the man, and knew they intended to take his heart out. But they ignored how far they had gone in that program, and only believed it was the normal “hurting” part.

When the scream died on Will's lips, he spat his hatred to the monster's face. It still hurt as much as before, but his lungs, especially with one pierced, could only yell for so much time.

Kirch stared dumbly at what he had before his eyes. As for Legolas, the elf was watching with horror and fascination the utter lack of heart of the man that was being opened just next to him, under his nose. This man literally had no heart.

The orc was about to ask Guruck what to do, since the immortal man had no heart to take out, but he never got to; this was the moment Anamaria chose to yell at both orcs.

“You bastards, let go of the boy!!! He did nothing to you!”, was a very polite and shortened version of what passed her lips. Guruck stared, dumbfounded, at the woman who could insult orcs better than they themselves did with any race they encountered.

Many things happened then.

The most incredible of which was only witnessed by Legolas.

To be fair, Kirch saw it too. But the orc was soon not in any state to speak of it to anybody, so he could hardly be counted as a witness.

William, when he had first landed in this strange place, had been so surprised he hadn't had the time to act accordingly to the attack he had suffered. After what he had noticed, first of all Elizabeth, who had been dead for centuries, and after that, her still clean outfit of Pirate Lord of the South China Sea. Meaning, prior-battle.

No matter how it had happened, Elizabeth was here, alive, and it was an Elizabeth who ignored what had become of her husband, that he was undead, and even that he was her husband, because they hadn't yet been married back then.

So William had decided that no matter how long they got here, together, he would not tell her and worry her with what had become of his heart, be it about life or be it about love.

So it meant that all along, he had restrained himself to fight off the two monsters without his powers. Hence, no passing through objects.

This time, however, there was no helping it. Nothing the monster did would kill Will, and for now Elizabeth couldn't see him.

So the captain of the _Dutchman_ allowed his wrists to pass throught the rope tying them together. His right hand grabbed the broken bit of bone that pierced his lung and got it out of his chest before the wound completely healed. He felt incredibly better once it was done, as he felt the ribs grow back and his lung stitch itself back. If there was one thing he couldn't pass through, it was obviously himself. And like it or not, this broken bit of bone was a part of him. Which meant, first, that he had to get it out himself, second, that he'd have to break himself open again later on because there was still another bit to take care of.

But it wasn't the time to worry about that, and Will thrust the bone in the monster's throat, who looked at him dumbfounded as he fell to the ground.

Meanwhile, Brian had managed to get rid of his bounds, under the cover of the dark-skinned woman's yells. He'd have to thank her later for that.

He quickly jumped on his feet, surprising everybody, except the oldest man amongst the prisoners, and smirked at the monster before him, who was too dumbfounded to react quickly enough.

Brian's smile was still covered in blood, though dried this time. The dark color painting his lips scaled off as they stretched into a hainous grin.

Guruck started snarling just before the man's hand touched his head, and the orc was still reaching for a weapon when his head was bashed forcefully into the nearest wall.

There was a “crack!”, and a dead orc fell to the ground, half of his face smashed by its encounter with a wall. If anything, Sibylla thought it was better looking than before.

Both Will and Brian took ten seconds to breath after their ordeals.

After all, given the fact that no one had come in at the first screams, either there was no one else in there, or the occupants of the room had been expected to be loud. So the dull sound of two bodies collapsing on the ground weren't going to attract more monsters.

Luckily.

Or rather, if they were to be lucky.

None of the people left in the room were known for being particularly lucky in their lives, so they wouldn't bet everything on luck. Hence why they still tried not to linger.

After ten second of calm, Will took a deep breath and tried to ignore that his chest was soaked with blood. With some luck, Elizabeth would think it was the monster's.

He winced. He didn't like to rely on luck. Most of the time, his was shitty.

Prefering to postpone the upcoming confrontation with his wife-who-was-not-yet-his-wife, William turned to the poor elf and started to unchain him, as gently as he could.

Legolas almost fell on his savior, his strength still a far away memory. He felt sore, and nauseous.

Will helped the blond as well as he could, and finally got to see his face.

The _Dutchman_ 's captain blinked.

There were decidedly way too many “him” in the room, if there was even one with blond hair.

And pointy ears, too, but if he was an elf as the monster had said...

Oh well.

The elf's voice was barely audible when he talked, and Will was the only one to hear him.

“Thank you, but are you alright?”

William shifted so that the others couldn't see his face, and pointed at his chest.

“About that? It's healed.”

His own answer had only been a whisper, but speaking meant he had to breath, something he had tried not to do until now, knowing there was a broken bone at large near his lungs. He didn't want an encore of the piercing from before, thank you very much.

But he couldn't speak without breathing, or rather, he theoretically could, since he was undead, but he didn't know how to make his body act so. And it just happened he couldn't breath without having the broken bit of rib poking against his lung.

Not actually piercing it, but it hurt.

Will winced.

Legolas arched an eyebrow.

The captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ amended, still in a whisper.

“Mostly healed. I have a bit of a rib that is currently floating around my lungs, but I'll take care of it as soon as no one will be there to see that I don't actually have a heart and almost nothing can kill me.”

The last part had been mumbled, but of course Legolas' elven ears heard it all. No matter how shocked by the claim, and now with a good enough idea of why this man was immortal, the Elvenprince kept his face in check. If the man himself didn't want the others to know, he wasn't going to be the one to tell them.

Will eventually deflected the attention on the prince.

“But you, are you alright? You're as soaked in blood as I am, and it's saying something, considering...”

And he gestured at the scar on his heart, silently reffering to the opening of his chest.

Legolas showed him the back of his hands, his forearms and his own heart, before answering.

“You are not the only one to have scars... No matter, I can stand. I will not be very efficient if there are any more orcs to battle, but I can hold my own.”

Both agreed to keep their true state to themselves.

In the meantime, Brian had looked around for something to cut the others' bounds with. The various swords, knives and other weapons had been thrown into the dark of the room as soon as the orcs had gotten their owners under control, so the man had to take a torch off the wall to search for them. Eventually, the gold of a sword handle reflected the flames of the torch, and Brian stumbled over a bow.

He found in this fashion ten weapons: Will's small sword that-was-actually-Norrington's-but-eitherway, Paris' bow and the two daggers the prince and princess of Troy had had on them, Balian's longsword, Odysseus' xiphos, Elizabeth's chinese sword, Anamaria's cutlass, and Sibylla's two daggers, after all, even princesses and queens had to defend themselves.

He himself had not been armed when he had been summoned to this cave, not even with his gun, because it had been a day off.

Brian took the daggers and went to the oldest man in the group first, cutting his already loose ties and giving him a blade to do as much with the others. Soon, they were all free, at least of their bounds, even if for the Trojans to trust the Greek enough to let him free them, it had taken a whole minute.

The first thing Balian and Sibylla did was to help Elizabeth with the wounded James Norrington, who had tried to talk but found out his throat was completely dry. With the help of the former queen of Jerusalem and of Anamaria, the Navy man managed to stand up. He now had a large bandage covering both his stomach and chest.

His first words, after having drunk some bad-tasting water coming from the orcs' supplies, were “Damn Jones and his forsaken crew.”

Elizabeth laughed at him when he told her that the waves had robbed him of both his hat and wig. She told him it was better this way, while everyone else looked at the admiral wondering why he would want to use a wig.

That is, all those who understood what he had said.

After what everyone took back what was theirs. Elizabeth ranted about how she had left her guns on the table just minutes before being transported in here, and Legolas mourned the loss of his bow and knives. As for Brian, he just shrugged his lack of weapons off, saying that if it came to it, he'd have to break the monster's necks, and that's all.

Legolas almost argued that it wasn't so easy, but he kept silent, his eyes on the dead orc his lookalike had bashed against a wall.

Once they were all more or less in a better state, everyone sat down in a circle.

Legolas was keeping an eye on the door, just in case. He had borrowed Paris' bow and arrows.

After a silence, Brian was the first one to talk.

“Right, so, first thing first: who speak english here?”

To nobody's surprise, the three Greeks seemed utterly lost. Well, not Odysseus, who was simply listening seriously, as if trying to absorb the words and make them into others.

William, Anamaria, Elizabeth and Norrington raised their hand, as well as Brian himself, and Sibylla, who looked at her husband as if to ask what he was waiting for.

Seeing Balian was simply staring at her, as if surprised, the former queen sighed.

“I do. Not very well, but I do. My husband and I are french. _Maintenant, Balian, peux-tu me dire pourquoi tu ne lèves pas la main?_ ”

The young man frowned, unsure of what to say.

“ _Je n'ai pas compris la question, Sibylla. Je ne parle pas l'anglais.”_

“ _Bien sûr que si. Cela fait des mois que nous avons rejoins le roi Richard dans la reconquête de Jérusalem. Quelle langue parlais-tu, tout ce temps, sinon l'anglais? Et d'ailleurs, pourquoi es-tu habillé comme cela? Nous sommes de retour en terre sainte, et plus en France.”_

This time, Balian looked completely lost.

“ _Je te demande pardon, Sibylla, mais moi, je vis en France. D'ailleurs, nous venons de nous marier.”_

He ended his sentence almost tentatively, as if he feared to contradict his wife, but was sure she was talking nonsense.

Elizabeth, who had learned french early in her life, and Norrington, who had learned it out of necessity not long before becoming a captain, shared a glance. Will had understood too, after all, he had had seven centuries to learn most living languages, but he didn't want to explain that to Elizabeth, so he acted as if he hadn't understood one word of what had been said.

Before the two french people started arguing, Elizabeth interrupted in French. She had almost no accent, and was rather pleased with her mastery of the language.

“ _Vous parlez du Roi Richard Coeur de Lion, nest-ce pas? Douxième siècle? Mais nous, nous sommes du Dix-huitième siècle, et ces gens-là semblent venir de la Grèce antique. Je ne suis pas certaine de ce que j'affirme, mais je pense que nous avons été amenés ici et maintenant, non seulement de différentes époques, mais aussi de différents temps de notre vie. Pour moi, James a été blessé il y a presque deux semaines. Et pourtant, il est toujours vivant. Quand à Will, je vois qu'il a une alliance au doigt. Or, nous n'avons pas encore eu le temps de nous marier...”_

Sibylla looked at her husband, and Balian did exactly the same, completely thrown aback by Elizabeth's theory.

“Well, if that's the case, I guess Balian doesn't know yet how to speak english. But from what I heard, the elf speaks English too, or else he wouldn't understand us.”

Legolas looked startled for a second, then his face lit up in understanding.

“Oh, the Common Speech? Sorry, in these lands, we call it Westron.”

Brian looked over everyone slowly, before asking once again who spoke English well enough to understand and be understood.

Will, Elizabeth, Norrington, Anamaria, Brian himself, and Sibylla and Legolas raised their hand.

“Right, now, who speak French? _Français?_ ”

Balian, Sibylla, Norrington and Elizabeth raised their hands. Legolas saw Will hesitate, but said nothing. Apparently the man had many things to hide. As long a the prince was aware of that, he saw no reason to divulge them.

Finally, Brian turned to the three Greeks, and thought it was now or never. If they laughed, he'd know he wasn't even able to ask properly if someone spoke Greek in Greek. Not his fault, after all, he had done ancient Greek at school, and it didn't include talking it.

“ _You speak Greek, don't you? Or whatever you called it back then?”_

Paris, Cassandra and Odysseus shared a look. They didn't know what this _“Greek”_ was, but the man with the bruised face had certainly talked in their tongue. Maybe that was how they called their language, in the man's country.

Cassandra was the one to speak. This was the first time she really talked since they had ended up in this strange place. When everyone's gaze fell on her, the young woman shivered. There was something in these lands, something that she could sense, but that for now couldn't see her...

She hoped it would continue that way.

“ _I'm not sure what you mean by 'Greek', but yes, we are from Greece.”_

Brian frowned before remembering that the Greeks had taken a long time before considering themselves as such. Brushing aside the point, he went back to what mattered.

“Alright. Who speak Greek? I hope there is someone else than me, because those three come from a time when neither French nor English existed, and they certainly don't speak our languages. And I'm far from proficient.”

Then he repeated the first part of the question in Greek, and waited.

Besides the three greek people, only Sibylla and Elizabeth raised a timid hand. Greek had been part of their education as young women of high birth. They wouldn't dare to say they spoke it well, but they guessed they could manage to communicate well enough.

This time, Brian saw the hesitance in the man with the bloodied chest's eyes. Like Legolas, he decided to say nothing. For now.

“Good. At least, we're not completely unable to communicate with one another. Now, each of you will present himself. First, you say your first name. Then, pause. After that, your full name, starting again with the first name. I don't want to repeat that in French and Greek, so please, those of you who understand me, do it so that the others will understand.”

Man, he was talking a lot today. That wasn't like him. Then again, Brian was rarely hauled away from a coffee shop and thrusted with strangers from other times and countries to defend themselves against monsters.

Seeing that no one was starting, he rolled his eyes and set the example.

“Brian. Brian Epkeen.”

And he pointed at himself, hoping the french man and the three Greek would understand better if he did so.

The others shared a glance, and Will was the next one to speak. Him too pointed at himself.

“William. William Turner.”

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Swann.”

The Pirate King saw Will flinch at that, and she remembered the wedding ring he was wearing. She felt secretly glad that she wasn't the one who was the most in advance in their timeline, though she was a bit sorry for Will. If ever something had happened to her, or to someone they knew, he wouldn't be able to talk about it with her...

“James. James Norrington.”

The former commodore almost croaked the words as he talked, because he was still feeling weak and dry. Elizabeth had to contain a laugh. This was, no matter how bad it felt for the admiral, still better than being dead, she guessed.

“Anamaria.”

And the dark-skinned woman kept it that way. For the first time, Will wondered if maybe, she didn't have a family name... because he was certain she had no family.

Legolas was the next one. He had pondered for a time which name he should give... Unlike men, elves didn't use family names. They used, most of the time, the name of their father, or a name that had been given to them according to who they were...

“Legolas. Legolas Greenleaf.”

That was how his friends called him.

Sibylla followed, conscious that, as a princess and a queen, her family name hadn't meant much.

“Sibylla. Sibylla of Jerusalem.”

When they heard it, Will, Elizabeth and Brian almost stopped breathing. The latter two, because of their education. The first one, because of the years he had had to read about anything he could find. Having the Internet or the TV on the Dutchman was unfortunately not an option.

“Wait wait wait, as in, the Queen Sibylla?”

Said queen shrugged. It was of no importance, here.

She turned to her husband, and looked at him pointedly.

“ _Balian. Balian d'Ibelin.”_

This time, the three only looked at the defensor of Jerusalem in wonder. Both Sibylla and Balian guessed they had somehow become famous over the centuries, and Legolas wondered what was the story behind the silence. If the woman was a queen, was her husband a king?

That left only the greek people to present themselves. Brian hoped they had understood what had been done so far.

They had. But when they said their name, the following silence was so deafening Legolas could have sworn someone had made sound disappear from the world. This time, there wasn't one person, besides himself, of course, who didn't know them.

“ _Odysseus of Ithaca.”_

“ _Cassandra of Troy.”_

“ _Paris of Troy.”_

The looks the three legends got were priceless, and Brian was already wondering if he could get them to sign an autograph or something if he found a piece of paper.

Odysseus thought he'd have to learn those people's languages soon, so that they could tell him why they were all looking at him as if he was Hermes himself.

After a time, when they were sure that both Legolas and Norrington could walk, as well as Will even if he seemed suspiciously unscathed, according to Elizabeth, they picked up their weapons, and hoped they could make their way out of this orcish lair.

 

 

**The forest**

 

A guard called his captain with silent gestures, and pointed to him yet another orc sentry. But this time, the sentry wasn't alone. And he was standing between the shadow and the light, but not far away there was a great oak, and they could see a distinct hole in the ground next to the sentry.

“ _I believe you found their lair. Now, let us pray the Valar that the prince is still alive. Call the others, and we will eliminate all of them as quickly as possible, before going down to search for Legolas.”_

Soon, the whole patrol was gathered.

It was quick and efficient. The elves took their bows, aimed, and waited for their captain's order. They released their arrows at the very same time, and the sentry as well as the nine orcs that were standing just behind fell to the ground.

Carefully, the guards walked to the entrance of the lair, bows armed, wary. They hadn't found any other orc outside the lair, but who knew? Maybe there was one, or ten, or twenty, hidden out there, waiting to attack. It wasn't likely; if there was only one, he wouldn't be brave enough to attack the ten of them. If they were more, they wouldn't be able to keep silent. It wasn't likely. But it could happen.

Or maybe there were orcs waiting for them, just in the shadows of the entrance.

They were there to free the Elvenprince. But if they could do so without losing their lives, it would always be better.

They were only at ten feet of the entrance when sounds of battle and screams were heard, coming from inside. The elves stopped advancing, their arrows ready to pierce through the first orc that would leave the shadows of the lair.

An indeed, an orc ran out of the lair, completely panicked. But he got an arrow in the head as soon as he walked out. The guards shared a questioning look, but no one knew what could have created such panic.

Two other orcs ran out, and they met the same fate. It was only with the fourth one that they got their answer. The fourth orc tried to ran out of the lair, and one arrow was almost released, when a voice followed the monster, and an arm yanked him back inside.

“What was is about gutting and eating me for dinner?”

This was a voice they knew well, and yet it wasn't Legolas Thranduilion's voice. It sounded like it, but not exactly. It was a bit less... harmonious, perhaps.

The orc tried to get out of the grip of his attacker, bringing him into the light.

And so the patrol of elves saw for the first time Brian Epkeen. And the man, bruised, bloody, was breaking an orc's neck.

 


	3. Issues of communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well... for now, they are being a bit suspicious of each other. I think that's pretty normal.

**TA 3017, November**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Outside the orcs' lair**

 

The monster, which was called an orc if the elf was to be believed, almost escaped his attacker, but Brian was quicker, and grasped him just before he walked into the light, and possibly into a wide open space, with many places to run to, and maybe other enemies to alert. There was no way in hell he'd let the thing escape.

The fact that the monster and his friends had apparently intended to eat them for dinner wasn't to his liking, and he'd be damned if he let him go and get reinforcement.

For the same and obvious reasons, the detective wasn't planning to let him live either. Killing wasn't something he did with pleasure, but he wasn't reluctant to act when it came to it. The last days had been enough of a proof that he couldn't let his enemies live, unless he wanted his friends to pay for his mercy. Of course, he was a police officer, and preventive killing wasn't something he was allowed to do. But it didn't mean that he couldn't fight back...

It wouldn't be the first time he killed, and at least, the thing wasn't human.

Brian's voice, as he spoke in sarcasm before breaking the monster's neck, let his disgust show.

It wasn't easy to break, a neck. He had never done it before. Then again, he had never bashed a monster against a wall before either, and it had worked fine in the underground room. Maybe he was good at this kind of things... Or it might have been because of the adrenalin. But still, it had went well enough. After all, he had gotten the hang of shooting with a firearm very quickly, and his aim was usually good. He had never gotten the opportunity to try something as brutal as bashing someone's skull against a wall, but he knew that his unarmed fighting skills were alright too...

That is, they would be even better if he stopped drinking so much, and worked out a bit more. He'd need these skills, if he had really ended up in a place / world / wherever-the-freaking-hell-he-was filled with those disgusting orcs. On a brighter note, he doubted there would be much opportunities for him to drink as much as he did back home, or even live in the same relative comfort, for he had almost no money on him, and what he had surely wasn't of any value in this place.

But it wasn't the matter, right now.

The matter, for now, was that he didn't want to keep holding the dead monster in his arms. And so he just let the body fall to the ground. Thinking back to one of his lookalikes' comment a bit earlier, Brian harshly thought that now, the orc was as dead as his rotten state should have meant he was.

The detective took a deep breath, and looked up to see if there were anymore threats out there. He had heard the other prisoners of the underground cell coming up just behind him, and he guessed they surely were waiting for him to say something, or move out of the way.

The first thing Brian saw when he looked up, was the dying light of the end of a day.

The second thing he saw, was an arrow pointed in his direction.

Or maybe in the monster's direction, but eitherway, he wasn't sure, and it was possible that the archer wouldn't be against killing him too, for whatever reason they could have to do that. After all, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” wasn't always true. It wasn't because he had just escaped from the cave and murdered an orc that he was one of the good guys. He doubted the orcs made a distinction, when they choose their victims.

Brian slowly raised his hands, indicating he wasn't armed, and looked around a bit more.

“Right...”

Forget one arrow, it was more like ten of them. And with the light behind them, Brian couldn't see what the archers looked like. They could even be friends with the dead fiend laying at his feet, for all he knew.

From their height, he guessed they weren't orcs. Then again, what did he know about orcs? The two down there had been different enough, though equally ugly. And even if they weren't orcs, they could be some other kind of monsters. After all, he had been fighting alongside an elf, just a moment before. If there were elves and orcs in this world, there could be other beings, and not all of them friendly.

A voice came from behind him, sounding suspiciously like his own, though a bit younger, and less altered by the frequent absortion of alcohol that had become his habit since... Oh, well, let's not talk about that, shall we?

“What is it? Are there more orcs? Is the path clear?”

Brian would have guessed it was Paris of Troy's voice, if the Trojan had been able to speak English. Which he wasn't. So it couldn't be him. Balian of Ibelin wasn't a possibility either, for he spoke only French. That left William Turner and the elf, Legolas Greenleaf.

Difficult to guess, between these two. All of them had almost the same voices, it was unnerving.

And it certainly wasn't the time to think about that.

Brian squinted, hard. His eyes adjusted to the luminosity, eventually, and he could say these people were definitely no orcs. In fact, they were suspiciously good-looking, like, ethereal. Perfect bodies, and from the little he could see of their facial features, very handsome... or beautiful, since two were definitely not flat-chested.

“Depends. What do you call 'clear'?”

“What are you playing at, exactly?”

The voice had grown a bit angry, so Brian ruled out Legolas Greenleaf. He doubted the elf had even the strength to sound angry, with the state he was in.

Meaning, this was William Turner the Bloodied One who had talked. This lookalike wasn't in any state preventing anger. Which was strange, considering he was covered in blood, red blood, and orc blood was black, from what Brian had seen so far.

Turner was turning into a mystery, from his absent wounds to his hidden knowledge of Greek. The man seemed to be keeping many secrets about himself from even his wife. Brian had no idea why, but he didn't like being kept in the dark. Not knowing something could too easily turn into dying because of one's ignorance.

Unfortunately for Turner, Brian was a detective, and a damn good one at that, even if he often made a point not to look the part. After all, asking questions and throwing around theoretical accusations weren't the sole things a detective had to do to solve a mystery. Observing was important, too.

And Brian had discovered that it was easier to observe while being silent.

So he'd keep quiet, and would keep his theories to himself, until the whole thing unraveled before his eyes.

But once again, it wasn't the moment to think about that.

“There are no more monsters, but there is a lot of people aiming at us with bows and arrows. Actually, they're aiming at me, since you're still inside.”

As he spoke, he saw the archers lower their weapons, though not completely.

Behind him, Brian heard something of a commotion, as if someone injured was trying to make their way to his position but had a little difficulty doing it. As it was, there were two heavily wounded people in their party. Which, he wanted to point out, was not normal at all, considering that Turner had been screaming like a pig being gutted for a while down there, and he didn't look like the kind of man who would scream for a broken nail. But anyway, the two were the elf, who could walk on his own, and had even made a strike by throwing an abandonned blade right into an orc's face only minutes before, and James Norrington, the man who was dressed like an officer of old, and who could not stand on his own with his stomach injury, let alone walk. The black woman, Anamaria, and the queen of Jerusalem had had to support him out of the cave. So it was unlikely to be him, for he'd have to crawl to get out on his own.

Legolas Greenleaf, then.

“What?! let me pass!”

Not a bad idea, since the elf was home, unlike them. He knew more than anyone else about these lands, and surely had an idea of whether the archers were foes or allies. Maybe they would even recognize him.

Which could end greatly as well as badly, depending on who they were, Brian had to admit. But, if anything, they would know where they stood in all this mess.

Legolas had a pretty good idea of who the people outside the orcs' lair were, for if they weren't monsters, that is, orcs, and had bows and arrows, there was little mystery left to uncover.

He wasn't worried.

Still, he'd rather not have one of the other “him”, or even one of the “side effects”, dead, because of the patrol's suspicions. It was bad enough that four of the men shared his face for one of the guards to be suspicious.

And he had seen how Brian Epkeen dealt with those that threatened him.

A sparkle would be enough to lit a great fire, in such a situation. The Elvenprince didn't want to see anyone die this day, or even be injured. And as dangerous as Epkeen seemed to be, against several archers, the man wouldn't be the one to get out victorious.

The elf finally walked out of the lair.

His wounds were burning, and he was starting to suspect he might have a fever. It wasn't something he was accustomed to, being an elf, but if illnesses weren't something he knew, the effects of a wound were just the same as for a son of the Race of Men. He felt light headed, too, and several times the world had spinned around him since they had set to get out of the cave.

Legolas welcomed the sinking sunlight falling on his face.

His eyes fell on the patrol members, and he sighed in relief.

“ _You come just in time, Orodir. I am not certain we would have lasted the night, if we had had to travel through Mirkwood in the state we are in. How did you find the lair?”_

Then, he turned around, and switched to Westron.

“You can come out, they are guards from my people. Just do as they say for now, I'll be back soon.”

The captain Orodir recognized his prince as soon as his eyes fell on him. He ordered all weapons to be lowered, and went to support the wounded elf, while the other guards would guide the people that had come in the Elvenprince's trail out of the clearing, away from the orcs' bodies, following the Elvenprince's implied orders.

“ _We went as soon as we noticed you were missing. The yrch had sentries on the whole way from Greenwood's border, but we noticed the first before he did notice us. Now, what I am more interested in, are the identities of the men and women who accompany you, and how you walked out of this.”_

The captain observed the prince, wondering how he'd explain all that to the Elvenking.

Legolas Thranduilion had something that looked like a shirt on him, but it was bloodied and shredded, as if the orcs had ripped it off its owner. It was not his own garb, for Legolas had found his shirt to be in such a state that this one looked just fine when compared. In fact, it was William's, who had no wounds to protect from infection nor to hide.

Orodir frowned when he saw the wounds that the Elvenprince, unlike his lookalike, was trying, unsuccessfully, to keep hidden.

“ _Legolas, let me see.”_

The prince relented, but it was obvious he did so unwillingly.

The captain gasped.

“ _Elven runes! What has happened down there?! And... 'Through Time and Ages'; 'the blood of their bloods'; 'shall be reclaimed'; 'by the first blood'; 'that gave them names'. What does it means?”_

Legolas looked back at his wounds, that were already half-scarred, taking the time to read the runes. It was indeed as Orodir had read them, from his right hand to the left one, passing by his right forearm, heart, and left forearm.

He frowned.

The orcs had known nothing, so even the one who was a bit clever hadn't understood what he had been carving in the elf's flesh. But he had talked of brothers...

Through Time and Ages, the blood of their blood shall be reclaimed by the first blood that gave them names. It sounded like a prophecy of some sort, or a spell. Which it apparently was, considering it had brought the others here, from other times, maybe even other Ages in the future.

But Paris, Balian, William and Brian were men, not elves. They couldn't be his brothers. And even so, even if they had been Thranduil's and Aeweryn's sons, lost through time and species, it didn't work. The first blood that had given them their names were their parents. His lookalikes surely had parents of their own.

And as far as he knew, none of these parents had been the ones to order the Witch King to go to the orcs' master and claim them back to this era. That, it had been the doing of the Dark Lord, the fallen Maia, the lord of Mordor. Sauron.

“ _I have no idea. But the orcs had a strange dagger, certainly of morgul craft. I took it, to show to my father. Anyway, it made these wounds, and it summoned the others in the lair. You have to take a look at their faces, Orodir. We must absolutely go back to the Halls, and speak to my father.”_

The patrol captain obeyed his prince's demand, not knowing what to expect, and turned to look at the men and women that the guards who could speak Westron were currently trying to get to calm down. It wasn't easy, Orodir could guess, since he had heard a couple of languages being used that he had never heard before in his four thousand years of life.

He certainly hadn't expected to see what he saw then.

The first man his eyes went to was the one who was currently resting, sitting with his back against a tree, just at the limit of the clearing. He looked clean enough, and quite good for a Second Born, but one of the guards was busy tending to a nasty wound that would have been deadly if no one had done it.

The second person his eyes fell onto was more of a surprise, for she was particularly beautiful, and was dressed in what looked like a fighting outfit belonging to a female warrior of some standing.

But it was the third face that shocked the captain out of his composure.

To his credit, his composure had already been quite shaken by the disappearance of his prince, and later on, by the state he had found him in.

Still, the third face shattered what was left of his composure.

Had he looked sooner, Orodir would have noticed that the elven guards were making the exact same faces as they looked at the Second Borns that had gone out of the orcs' lair. But the captain had been too worried about the Elvenprince, and had missed the faces.

So when he had looked towards the other elves, men and women, he had only noticed the surprised glances the guards had been giving the strangers. He had at first guessed it was because of the strange languages he had heard, and maybe of the odd clothes they wore.

But the glances, that were all that was left from the broken composures of before, were directed at only four of the strangers, and he had failed to see that.

“ _But he is a man...”_

Legolas arched an eyebrow, as if to say, that's all?

“ _Orodir, forget about the fact that he has the features of an elf, and tell me more about him having the features of one particular elf.”_

Yes, because there were extremely handsome men and women. It happened. Quite often, in fact, for those who had elven ancestry.

Sure, they were rare. But they existed, and the purer of blood of all were the most handsome. That is, the descendants of Luthien and Idril in direct line, the children of Earendil and Elwing, the scions of Elros Half-elven, the kings of Númenor, but also the Lords of Andúnië and their descendants, the kings of Gondor and Arnor. I n a word, Aragorn son of Arathorn, since he was the only one left of this great family line.

When he tried not to look like a dirty recluse, that is.

There were others, too, of elven inheritance. Mixed marriage had been a rare thing, but they had happened, after the two mythical ones of greater lineages, that had become one in the blood of Elrond and Elros before being parted again, between immortals and mortals. Most had happened in Númenor, and their blood had weakened as it had gone into many families, creating the Dúnedain. Their elven ancestry was of lesser importance than that of the kings and their kin, who had both the blood of great elves and of a Maia, Melian, but they were still of elven ancestry.

So all in all, even if it was rare to meet one with elven blood outside of the Dúnedain, it still happened. It wasn't impossible.

But the facts were, and no matter how ridiculous that seemed, the facts were that this man had exactly the Elvenprince's face. Of another coloring, yes, but the same face.

And, Orodir could tell now, the same body as Legolas Thranduilion. Same height, same weight, or pretty much the same. Like another version of Legolas, but as a man, with dark hair and dark e...

Orodir's eyes widened, as he realized whose eyes and whose hair color these were.

Coincidence. It could only be a coincidence.

The prince's voice startled him back into the conversation.

“ _And that's not all. This one is William. But there are also Balian, Paris and Brian.”_

Legolas pointed the three other lookalikes to the captain, who only stared, unable to comprehend what was going on anymore. He numbly noted that one of the three was the one who had broken the orc's neck, but that, because of the swelling on his lips and the bruises on his face, the captain hadn't noticed sooner.

“ _You're right. You need to talk to your father about this. Actually, it would be better if the five of you went back to the Halls ahead of the rest of us. With the injured man, it will take a while otherwise. I was going to send a messenger, but...”_

Orodir shook his head, a bit unsettled by the whole thing.

The two elves eventually joined the others, and the captain gave his orders to the guards.

As for Legolas, he was quite happy when a guard gave him his weapons back. He had truly thought he had lost them, when he had seen they weren't with him in the underground cave. The bow he didn't mind. It was a good bow, adequate for his level of skill, but the prince could get another like that. His knives, on the other hand...

They were the one and only gift he had received from his mother's uncle, when he had come of age. Nevermind that the ellon had never come to see him in person, or maybe, because Amros had never wanted to meet him, Legolas treasured the two bone-handled knives.

The elf went to William, gesturing to the other “him” and to the “side effects” to come over.

“Alright. We don't really have the time to talk here, because even if we are in Mirkwood, we're also out of my father's realm. If we linger, other orcs might come. I will make it short, we'll have the time to speak later. These people are my own, and they will guide you to safety. Unfortunately, the word has gone to my father that I had been abducted, so I have to leave first. For obvious reasons, I believe it would be wiser for William, Paris, Brian and Balian to come with me, while the others will stay behind and rest for the night.”

Sibylla translated the Elvenprince's speech to her husband, while Brian grudgingly did the same for the Greeks. The detective was certain he was making a fool of himsef with his poor proficiency in Greek, but someone had to do it, and Elizabeth Swann seemed to be too busy worrying about the wounded man and her not-yet-but-still-already husband. At least Paris, Cassandra and Odysseus were polite enough not to laugh, even if Brian had seen them frown once or twice, certainly trying to make sense of the grammatical nonsense he was telling them.

No one rejected the idea, but Odysseus had a question.

After all, the first thing that had happened to them in this land had been to be tied up and saved for a later feast. The ithacan king felt he had a right to know at least that.

He only hoped that the older-Paris-that-wasn't-Paris would get the meaning of his question. The man surely did what he could, which wasn't half bad, and Odysseus wouldn't fault him for not speaking his tongue completely correctly. But no matter Brian Epkeen's good will, there were issues of communication in this group.

“ _Wait a minute. We are obviously not in our worlds here, and I'd like to know what could possibly try to kill us on the way, besides those..._ orcs _. Just so that I don't attack something friendly if I'm startled.”_

Luckily, Brian understood most of the man's question, and what he couldn't understand, he guessed thanks to what he had understood.

Legolas frowned, wondering what could be familiar to these men from different countries and times, and what they would need to be warned about.

“Well... If it is particularly ugly or feels evil, it is most likely an enemy. With these, trust your instincts. If it tells you to run, do so. There are orcs, those you saw just now; goblins, that are mostly the same, but smaller; wargs, that are a kind of degenerated wolfs, usually black ones. Those are all evil. And of course, there are a few people that have chosen to become so, amongst men, or dwarves for example... Thiefs, burglars, killers, the usual. But there is almost no chances you'll stumble upon them in this part of the forest.”

Once his listing was relayed to those who didn't speak Westron, Legolas saw them become thoughtful, surely wondering where they had been sent to. The elf could sense they weren't used to having to deal with anything that wasn't human.

Well, most of them, at least.

Because he couldn't forget how Will Turner didn't actually have a heart, and was immortal and nearly indestructible. If anyone in this group, this one was used to deal with things that weren't of the race of men.

Nor could he overlook the look on this Odysseus' face. There was something about the man... He was a mortal, no mistaking it, but he felt like... As if there was much more about him, than a simple mortal family. Legolas could see it in the man's eyes; Odysseus of Ithaca was cleverer than most, but he was wise too, and the elf guessed he was very difficult to deceive. Looking at this mortal, the Elvenprince felt like he was looking at Aragorn, with his dúnedan heritage... but even more strongly.

Legolas didn't know what to make of it.

Before they got to say anything else, Orodir came back. The captain handed clean shirts to both his prince and one of his lookalikes, as well as thicker clothes for the Greeks, before saying they had to go, if they didn't want the Elvenking to die of worry before they got back to the Halls.

Orodir himself would stay there, with the injured man, the other mortals, and half of the patrol. In the end, those who would leave right now were, besides the Elvenprince and his lookalikes, four ellyn and an elleth.

Soon, Elizabeth was watching them leave between the trees.

Somehow, she felt relieved at their departure. And even more worried at the same time.

Her heart had ached each time Will had looked at her. She wasn't sure why, because he had looked perfectly happy to see her, each and every single time. She knew she loved him, and he loved her. It was obvious, with the way they looked at each other. It wasn't the matter.

It felt bad, because there was something wrong in those looks.

Actually, it was maybe the fact that Will was looking so happy each time he saw her. There was no doubts, no worries in his eyes, as it should be. But at the same time...

It was like he was looking too normal, too as-it-should-be, when they were in this abnormal situation.

Elizabeth didn't know what to make of it, and it unnerved her.

She sighed when she couldn't see him anymore, lost in the shadows of the ending day.

Her eyes turned to the people who had found them. Legolas Greenleaf had said they were his people... And considering he was an elf... and they were incredibly handsome... with pointed ears... They had to be elves too, didn't they?

Wait a minute, were they really glowing in the dark?

Elizabeth squinted a bit, unsure of what she was seeing.

No, they weren't exactly glowing... It was just a faint light. Nothing like glowing. If she hadn't been looking at them right now, she surely wouldn't have seen anything. It was very dim... but it was there. Alright. So elves emitted a very faint glow, that wasn't enough to be seen in daylight, and was barely visible in the dark. Duly noted.

First, being magically whisked away from the _Black Pearl_ 's deck and into a cave.

Then, monsters that ate humans and that were called orcs. Nothing to do with whales. And it was a relief, because Elizabeth didn't want to know what an orc the size of a whale would be able to do.

Next, elves that were tall, ridiculously handsome or beautiful, and glowed in the dark.

What would it be, now?

The Pirate King sighed. It wasn't as if she wasn't used to ridiculous situations. You know, cursed undead pirates. Kraken. Sea-monster-cursed undead captain. Locker in the afterworld. Goddess of the Sea. And she was sure she hadn't seen everything in the world.

But still, she felt a bit shocked, this time. Just a tiny bit.

No matter what she thought about the whole thing, Elizabeth wasn't anywhere near Cassandra's level of shocked. You'd think that someone like her, who had been gifted, right, no, cursed, by Apollo with foresight, and who lived in a time of gods and monsters, wouldn't be so shocked by her last ordeal.

The truth was, she wasn't. Shocked by the fact that she had ended up in another world / time / whatever, that is. Because shocked, she certainly was. But not because of that.

Frankly, she wasn't even shocked. She was terrified. She was feeling like she was going to throw up. No, worse, certainly, worse. Cassandra wasn't sure if that was the correct image for what she was feeling... but the best she could do to describe it, was that she felt as if all of her skin had been peeled off her body.

Disgusting, truly. Nauseating. Utterly disturbing.

But of course, the young princess didn't care about that. Disturbing, nauseating, disgusting, it was, but it didn't matter.

It didn't matter, when compared to the dread that was invading all of her being.

It didn't matter, and above all, she was terrified. The thing she wished the most, now, was to get her skin back and hide into a hole. Where it couldn't see her.

Cassandra was sitting against a tree, not far away from that despicable Odysseus of Ithaca, because she felt that if she tried to isolate herself, she'd only be more visible.

This... thing, she could feel its presence, far to the South-East. She had no idea what it was, but it was tremendous, both in power and in presence. It was terrible, and malevolent. It could only be described as a giant red eye over a black tower, and it looked at the lands around it, and it saw whatever it wanted to see. If it only looked her way, Cassandra feared that it would see her...

And it would wonder, why could she sense it, when she was so powerless?

Cassandra was only a mortal woman. What the others called foresight, she knew it didn't truly show the future. It showed her the future, as seen by those who made a decision. It was the truth of an instant in the very present. Or it was the only thing that obsessed one's mind. It wasn't really foresight.

It was more as if she could see as much as those of great power, without bearing that power. It made her invisible, in a way, because the ones she could see or sense couldn't sense back her presence if she stayed discreet. She was nothing. She had no power. But because of that very reason, it made her vulnerable. The ones she saw didn't notice her, and that was all. If she got herself noticed at some point, it was the end. She couldn't defend herself, neither in body, nor in might. She had no power.

And there was, in this world, a power so great she could sense it from here. It was far away, she knew it. But she could still sense it. If it saw her and decided she was worth catching, even if only to know how she could see it...

The princess of Troy tried to calm herself. It wasn't easy, but she had to do it. It was when she was under stress that she made the most mistakes. She couldn't afford to make a mistake with this powerful being, almost as powerful as the gods, maybe as much as the lesser ones. She couldn't afford to be noticed.

So the young woman closed her eyes, and worked on her breathing.

Even if Hector had just died because of Paris' foolishness, even if she was in an unknown world with only strangers, and a man who was her enemy, even if an evil lurked in the distance, she had to calm down.

As Cassandra relaxed, her mind became more open to the other sources of great power that were in these lands. There were many, and she felt reassured. If the great evil in the East had blinded her for a time, forbidding her to see anything else, it was because of its malevolence.

Cassandra breathed in and out. She welcomed the more gentle powers she could sense. They were soothing, wise, and benevolent.

The nearest one felt dangerous, but not malevolent. It was powerful, almost dark, very hurt, and she shuddered a bit, as it reminded her too much of Hades, and maybe a bit of Calypso. It was so close, she simply didn't know what to make of it. It was... in the direction Paris had taken with his lookalikes. Well, it wasn't as if it felt hostile. Even if they met it, Cassandra didn't think the other group was in any danger from it.

There was one, West to her location, that reminded her of Zeus and Aeolus, but also of a nymph, or some lower deity of the same kind too. It was powerful, wiser than any being she had ever met, and yet gentle.

Then there was another, far to the South, that was way more powerful, and yet binded by a power even greater. Cassandra could feel it to be grey, though she didn't know what it meant. It was older than the first one, wise, powerful, blazing, yet benevolent and... grumpy?

Cassandra frowned. How could a power be grumpy? The one it belonged to, yes, but a power itself?

Eitherway.

To the South from her position, but to the North of the grey power's location, she felt another great power, as strong as the other binded one, white, in a way, but stained. It wasn't as evil as the great, black, terrifying power in the East. But it was on its way to become so.

The princess shuddered, and moved on to the next power.

When her mind set on a power, to the South too, the image of a basin came to her mind. Cassandra let herself follow the lead of her feelings, and she finally sensed something... Great. Crushing. Of another nature than the two colored ones, but as powerful as them, at least in their binded form. It reminded her of Poseidon, and it was light. It felt a bit like the power in the West, yet more earthly. It was less wise, too. Very wise, still. But more attracted to greatness, perhaps.

Just before Cassandra looked away from this power, two light blue eyes appeared in her mind.

But they were soon gone. And the princess wondered if it hadn't been only her imagination...

Finally, her mind rested on another power, nearer from here, in the forest itself, though far away. It felt of life and nature, and reminded her of the goddess Demeter. It was binded too.

There were a few others, too, that were certainly very powerful, but they were so far away she could only say they were there.

Most of the powers she had felt thus far had been calming, and Cassandra opened her eyes, feeling better than before. The great dark shadow in the South-East was still there. It was still pressing on her mind, without actually knowing she was here. She knew that if she let herself be swallowed inside, she'd be noticed. It still frightened her. But she felt more able to fight it, not to let herself be seen, now.

The blond woman who was called Elizabeth Swann came to the princess, and told her in a hesitant Greek that the meal was ready. Cassandra stood up and joined the others around the fire the elves had started. The young woman looked at the other people in this party, and started eating.

She wasn't sure how this was going to unfold, but well. She had always lived in a world where the gods roamed free. She was used to strange things happening.

She might even consider bearing with the Greek's presence, at least until they got somewhere less dangerous for a lone woman.

The elven guards had hunted and taken a deer, when it had been obvious they would stay near the clearing until the following day. The meat was alright, and for a moment, Elizabeth wondered how they had done something like that in the wild, and with nothing that looked useful for cooking. She wasn't complaining, of course. Her last meals had been on a pirate island, where decent cooks were rarer than gold items.

Norrington and Odysseus were sharing a dead trunk as a seat, eating in silence. Once again, the Ithacan looked like he was trying to absorb all the words he could hear. All that, looking cleverer than any of them. It was unnerving. Especially for Norrington, who had some trouble eating without feeling pain due to his wound.

Elizabeth, Sibylla, Cassandra and Anamaria were sitting on the other side of the fire. The elves were sitting on the ground, all around the fire. The women were watching them, more or less suspiciously, as they thought it was unfair to be this fair, even for the males.

Not that they had anything to be jealous of. They were quite beautiful, too, or at least not offending to the eyes. But Elizabeth would have liked not being as dirty because of the pirate war. And Cassandra, keeping her mind away from the terrible presence in the East, wished she was a bit less plain. As for Sibylla, she was already resenting the shadows under her eyes; she was as light as these elves, and yet she looked pale, rather than fair, sometimes even a bit sickly.

Anamaria, on the other hand, couldn't help but stare at the rich garb of the former queen of Jerusalem. She wasn't a pirate at heart. She had joined Jack, a few years ago, only because he owed her money. As soon as she had gotten what she wanted, she had gone back to Tortuga, and bought another boat to resume her activity as a fisherwoman. But still. While the other women were jealous of the elves' beauty, Anamaria felt jealous of the queen's opulence. It wasn't right that some, like her, lost their family at five, and had to live in poverty, while others were...

Anamaria finished her meal, trying to rein in her jealousy.

But as the newcomers to Middle-Earth were busy eating and mentally complaining about the lack of justice in the differences between humans and elves, a state of mind that the First Borns witnessed with hidden smiles, knowing it would soon disappear, the elven guards were assessing the said newcomers.

They couldn't say they weren't surprised.

If anything, the one that unsettled them most was the colored woman. She looked to be in her late twenties, and her harsh tongue wasn't lost to them, even if they had scarcely heard her voice. It wasn't befitting of a lady, and no elleth would speak so. But she was a woman, and not an elleth. She didn't look like a lady either, not that it was bad. They guessed she had lived a difficult life.

Still, the fact that she was wearing breeches, and had a crude sword at her hip was unsettling, even for a woman who had to fight to survive.

But elves weren't prejudiced. Some of their own ellith were warriors, one proof being amongst them this night. These surely weren't wearing dresses to fight.

No, what made them feel uncomfortable was her skin color.

This woman was brown.

The only ellon who had traveled past Gondor amongst them could tell she was not as dark as a Southron from Far Harad, yet darker than a Haradrim. What she was doing here, in Mirkwood, at the hands of orcs, was a mystery in itself.

The guards wouldn't say they were suspicious of her because of her skin color only. They wouldn't go as far as being suspicious for such a thing. But they felt they had, if not a right, at least a need, to be wary of her.

They hoped the mortals wouldn't notice. Elves were good at keeping control of their emotions, after all.

Unfortunately for them, the mortals had three people trained to pick up the slightest changes in behavior amongst them.

If Odysseus said nothing, for there was no way for him to speak and be understood by the elves, if Sibylla stayed silent, as she didn't actually know this woman, who looked even darker than the Muslims in Jerusalem, Elizabeth didn't act as such.

Odysseus was a king, even if his kingdom was only a small island. He knew better than to antagonize the inhabitants of the country he was staying in.

Sibylla was a queen, and knew that some problems were better to stay unresolved, as long as they were hidden. The colored woman didn't look like she was aware of the slightly cold shoulder she was being given. It was better to leave it at that, for now.

Elizabeth was a noble, and yes, Pirate King too, but she doubted that pirates had any scrupulousness at showing their distrust, so it didn't matter. She had had to learn and see the falsity behind a smile as a child. And though the elves' smiles weren't false, she could see they were a bit more wary around Anamaria than around the others.

So when she caught yet another discreet glance, she chose to speak up.

“If it is because of Anamaria's skin color that you are suspecting her of being somehow evil, I am sorry to tell you that you are wrong.”

She said nothing more. There was nothing she could say, because her own past with the woman hadn't been exactly long and she didn't know her at all, in fact.

As for Anamaria, the young woman looked surprised at the Pirate King's intervention. Not that she wasn't glad of it. Just... surprised.

There was a short silence, before one of the elves who spoke Weston smiled apologetically.

“It was no such thing, miss. Only, there are no people of such a color in this area of Middle-Earth. They all live far to the South, in a country that is at odds with the kingdom of men we are the most familiar with. It has been that way for a few centuries, now.”

Great, thought Anamaria. The place she had landed in was one where colored people were, not only rare, but usually enemies. If she didn't end up burned alive or beheaded in the following month, she'd consider herself lucky.

The conversation having been started, the elve that had thought it'd be a good thing to continue. Soon enough, they had all presented themselves, and the elves were surprised to hear how exactly they had all ended up in the orcs' lair, and that they weren't all from the same era. One inquired about Elizabeth's attire, that they thought both beautiful and easy to fight in. It then moved on to Sibylla's rich garb.

Eventually, some of the things they hadn't talked about when presenting themselves came up in the conversation.

Odysseus admitted to being a king to a small island, and some of the elves got a surprisingly longing look on their faces at the thought of the sea.

Sibylla spoke a bit of the Second Crusade, and how Balian and her had been taking part into the reconquest of Jerusalem before being whisked here.

Norrington and Elizabeth spoke of the Carribean, and their lives aboard, though both of them failed to mention their less admirable actions, such as selling the seas to Beckett or becoming a Pirate Lord. Or getting elected Pirate King, for the matter. Elizabeth wasn't sure the commodore would take it very well, if he knew.

Anamaria mostly kept silent, though she admitted she was one year ahead of Elizabeth in her timeline. She kept silent the fate of the Pirate King's husband, as she had said nothing regarding the pirate election. She had heard the orc talking of the scar on William's chest, so she knew it had happened to him already. It wasn't her place to tell Elizabeth Swann her future husband's secret.

Cassandra spoke of Troy, and Odysseus felt obligated to tell her how the war had handed. The princess wasn't sure she believed the Greek, but as Elizabeth confirmed that the story had become a legend in her days, she bit her lower lip, and tried not to cry.

Norrington, guessing what was to come and unable to move without pain tearing up his chest, resigned himself to suffer as a collateral damage of Cassandra's wrath. He had no idea of what her words meant, but he knew the story of the _Iliad_ well enough.

The only question being, how much of it was actually accurate?

Cassandra stood up, and walked to the king of Ithaca, only to stop when they were close enough for her to slap him. Not that she was going to slap him. She was a princess, after all. She hadn't been educated to slap kings.

Odysseus really wanted to take a step back, just in case the trojan princess would slap him. But she'd only walk over the newly gained distance, so he didn't. If he was to be slapped, then so be it...

“ _You, king amongst the enemies of my city, are telling me that you, of all people, found a way to enter Troy and slaughter any who came in your way?! You dare to speak to me, and announce me that thanks to you, and you alone, my father died, as well as roughly half of my siblings?! You came to Troy, and you set it afire!!! And now you tell me of your deeds, and dare to pretend you are sorry for what you did?!?”_

Elizabeth and Sibylla shared a glance, understanding most of what was being said.

As for Odysseus, the man was simply listening, looking neither frightened at the trojan princess' anger, nor proud of his deeds. He only stood there, impassive, and listened as Cassandra of Troy lashed at him, under the surprised eyes of six elves, Orodir being one of them.

The elven captain couldn't help but think how Odysseus' contenance was spotless, even considering his elven standards.

“ _I did, dear princess, do what was needed for my people. If I hadn't answered Agamemnon's call, it would have been for my head, and the death of my people, that the king of Mycenae would have sailed. And then, once there was nothing left of my island, besides ashes and corpses, Agamemnon would have sailed to destroy Troy nonetheless. I ended the war as soon as possible using my brain, for there was no need to continue the siege, a choice that would have slowly killed your people and that would have caused the death of greek soldiers during skirmishes. No matter what, I did what needed to be done to spare as many lives as possible.”_

Cassandra was about to retort something freezing, but the ithacan king wasn't done yet.

“ _If you truly need someone to blame even in this world, then I suggest you look at your brother, who started this war by falling in love with the queen of another man. But if you wish to blame the true culprit, then I'll advise you to turn to Agamemnon, who unfortunately is nowhere around, for he had his eyes set on your city for years already, and Paris only happened to give him an excuse to attack. After all, I have seen the prince Paris and Helen together, and if I am certain of one thing, it is that the love they share is genuine, and the prince had no chance to resist its pull.”_

Odysseus sat back on the dead trunk, and finished his meal in silence.

Cassandra watched him do so, and only when he was done did she ask what had been on her mind during his speech.

“ _Do you regret allowing the Greeks into Troy to ransack the city and kill the people?”_

The king of Ithaca looked up at the standing princess. He didn't answer right away.

“ _I don't. But I am not pleased with my actions. And I do regret having had to do it. But I did what was the best out of the worst.”_

Cassandra nodded slowly. They all saw her walk away to where the rest of their stuff had been left, searching for a spot to sleep. No one said a thing, and Odysseus started to gaze into nothingness, thinking of Penelope.

Orodir waited for the ithacan king to leave before he asked Elizabeth and Sibylla what it had been about, as they were the only ones who had been able to understand something.

The queen and king, and, really, Elizabeth had to refrain a laugh when the thought came to her that way, because it sounded so strange even if it was true, the queen and king glanced at one another. This story, Cassandra's story, Odysseus' story, was also the story of the fall of Troy. It was the _Iliad_. It had been known through more than a millenium.

But could they really speak of it, when two of the characters were real, and with them? Cassandra and Odysseus weren't only legends to them, now. They were humans. They had feelings...

“I don't know how much we should tell, actually...”

“Well, I guess Odysseus spilled the beans with the _Iliad_ , so this one is alright to tell, but we should keep the _Odyssey_ a secret...”

Elizabeth nodded at Sibylla's idea, and turned back to look at Orodir... And at the other elves who were listening, too. Elves who had apparently not failed to notice the similarities between “Odysseus” and “ _Odyssey_ ”.

“ _The Iliad_ is an epopee that had been created, we think, four centuries after the actual event. In fact, before this day, I wasn't even sure it had any reality in it. It is a long poem of fifteen thousand three hundred thirty seven verses, that sings the war of Troy, the city of Cassandra's father, King Priam, against the allied Greeks, one of their kings being Odysseus. I can't say how much of it is accurate, because of the time passed between the war and the creation of the poem, and after that, between the creation and the writing, that took several centuries too.”

To let Elizabeth breathe a bit, Sibylla took over.

“Cassandra and Paris are two of the many princes and princesses of Troy, for it is rumoured that Priam had more than fifty children, however he managed to do that.”

Several blinks in the audience, even from Norrington.

“I hadn't registered that part...”

Elizabeth smirked, wondering if she could somehow ask either of the siblings if it was the truth, before sobbering up, when she realized that they had lost most of these siblings. Reminding them of this fact so soon might not be the most sensible thing to do...

So she went back to the very shortened story of the _Iliad_ , for she was far from remembering it in all its details.

“Paris, during a journey to the city of Sparta, fell in love with the queen Helen, who loved him back instantly. He took her back to Troy, despite the fact that she was already married, even if to a king she didn't love. King Menelaus and his brother, Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, went to war, with the help of the other great cities of Greece. After a long siege, many battles and many deaths, Odysseus got the idea to apparently retreat, and leave an offering, a giant wooden horse, before the wall of Troy, meaning the greek defeat. The Trojans took it inside the city. But several warriors had hidden themselves inside the horse, and they waited for night to come, and then they opened the gates.”

Sibylla winced, reminded of the siege of her own city, Jerusalem, and how it had only been thanks to Balian that it had never got so bad as in Troy. Then again, it was because of Balian's refusal to marry her over her marriage to Guy that the war had been started...

“You can guess what happened after that. Death, fire, and destruction.”

“And most of the royal family, including the king, died that night.”

Elizabeth glanced at the sleeping form of the trojan princess.

“That is what Cassandra just blamed Odysseus for. The death of her father, brothers, sisters, and the death of her people. Without him, the siege could have lasted for decades. He responded that he did what he had to do to save his own people from Agamemnon's wrath, and to keep the deaths to a minimum.”

After that retelling of the infortunate story of Troy, not much was said. The elves couldn't help but to think back to these two, that had gone to sleep early this night. And Orodir couldn't forget how he had seen something strange, something that didn't belong in a Second Born's eyes, a strange flicker in both of their gaze.

Cassandra of Troy held some kind of power, of that he was certain. But Odysseus of Ithaca felt even more unsettling than she did.

 

 

**Lothlórien**

**Caras Galadhon – Galadriel's and Celeborn's talan**

 

Galadriel walked into the talan, a pensive look on her face. Celeborn, who had been reading, looked up.

“ _Is something the matter, meleth?”_

The elleth waited a bit before answering, her voice low and slow.

“ _I think we should ask Amros to go to Imladris before long.”_

The lord of Lórien put down his large book, frowning in surprise.

His silver hair reflected the swan shaped lights, making him look otherwordly. That was one of the things that had taken Galadriel's heart, back then. There were so few silver haired elves in Aman, and yet it was such a beautiful color, that reminded her of the moon... Even if Celeborn, as herself, was older than the moon.

Of course, it was mostly his personality that had made her love him. But being good-looking couldn't hurt.

Galadriel soon witnessed the gentle light of wonder in her husband's eyes, that appeared each time he suspected she had seen something in her mirror. She truly loved that sparkle.

“ _Why for?”_

“ _He still hasn't met his great nephew, has he?”_

Celeborn moved to let her sit beside him.

His face had become grim, as his wife had made mention of Amros' refusal to see either his niece's husband or their child. It was one of the things he wasn't very happy with, for he knew that even if the ellon didn't mean to hurt, his niece's son actually was hurt by the refusal. It was no wonder that after all this time, the young ellon had yet to visit Lothlórien, when it was the realm Amros lived in.

It had almost been two thousands years, for the love of the Valar!

Amros really needed to let his grief aside, if only for a few months, so that he'd get to know the child she had left behind.

“ _He hasn't, and he isn't planning to. I wonder why he hasn't yet sailed West, if it is to remain in Arda in this state...”_

Celeborn gave Galadriel a wondering glance.

The lady of the Golden Wood smiled back to him.

“ _In a few months, an extraordinary council will happen in Elrond's house. Men, dwarves, elves, and even halflings will attend, to discuss the fate of the last war against Sauron. Greenwood will send an envoy too. And many children of the race of men will be there, that are more than they look. I haven't seen our participation to this council, but Amros should definitely go. He will find more there than he would ever dare to hope.”_

And Galadriel silently thought that she would really like to hear more about this young woman, blessed by Lórien, that had reached out to her earlier this day, and that she had only noticed because she had been looking in the mirror at the same time.

 

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**The forest**

 

Will was relieved that he had managed to keep the iron chest with his heart in it with him, without raising Elizabeth's and Norrington's suspicions. Actually, he was grateful that they had departed ahead of the others, for he wasn't sure he could have kept it hidden even only through this night, not taking into account the day of walking that would have followed.

It wasn't as if he could let the chest in the middle of nowhere. Anyone who stumbled upon it, and...

He'd rather not think about it.

So here he was, walking in the middle of a forest with elves and four people who shared his face, and with an iron chest in his hand. Not strange at all.

Elves...

One night, in 1927, when Calypso had been squatting the _Flying Dutchman_ , or, more exactly, the _Dutchman_ 's wine supply, the goddess had let it slip that there was a time, when elves had lived on Earth.

Or rather, Middle Earth, Arda, as she had called it.

She hadn't said much after that, only that millenia had passed since they had all departed for her land, the lands of the immortals, Aman.

Then she had fallen asleep, and Will hadn't pressed the issue. He knew he only had to wait for another one of her visit, and she would tell him more, one day.

The goddess had felt a bit lonely, as the seas had lost their mystery, and the monsters that haunted them had been killed, one after another. In the twenty-fifth century, that had been the time William had been in when this... summoning had happened, most of the supernatural had disappeared from the earth, and the creatures that were still there, lived hidden. Calypso had left, to go back to Aman.

But between 1927 and her departure, the goddess had told him more things about the past of Arda.

And so, Will wasn't so lost in this Age as the others were.

The captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ walked with Brian, Paris, Balian, Legolas and five other elves, as he tried to figure out how much he could tell them. After all, the elves at least, had a right to know he knew more about them than he had let on earlier. He was on their territory, under their protection.

It was only fair, too, for the members of their unfortunate party to know when exactly they had landed, compared to their own timelines. William had this particular piece of information, and he saw no reason not to share it.

It wasn't as if Elizabeth would know it came from him, if they kept their mouths shut about it. He could keep it a secret, that to him, she had been dead for more than six centuries. That for six hundred and sixty one years, he had been mourning her loss. That for so long, he had been alone, ferrying the dead at sea from one world to another.

Elizabeth needn't know about it. She didn't need to worry about his future, not now, that they had precious hours, days, months maybe, to spend together, after so long of him being alone.

While Will was brooding so, three of the elves were discreetly observing him.

At first, they hadn't noticed, too disturbed by the issue of his likeness with the Elvenprince. But now that they had more or less accepted that strange and unexplained things happened in life, especially in lives as long as their own, they were more receptive to the strange feeling that emanated from the young man that had presented himself as William Turner.

Legolas had kept the exact reason of the orcs' ritual a secret. The “immortal man” wasn't yet known as such. But even so, the elves weren't fools.

More sensitive than mortals, they could feel power when one possessing it came close to them. The most powerful elves, as the lord of Imladris, or the lady of Lothlórien, only had to look at these people, and they knew exactly what this power was. Themselves, they were only silvan elves. But even so, William Turner was simply so wrong as a mortal man, that they felt it.

It was nagging at them.

They couldn't say what “it” was, exactly, but “it” was nagging at them.

And the more time passed, the more they walked in silence, with this man next to them, with this iron chest that felt strange, as if, somehow, it was part of the man, as if, somehow, it was alive...

The more time passed, the less they were able to ignore it.

There was power emanating from the man, such power they had rarely seen before. It was ominous, yet not dark. Dangerous, yet not threatening. The elves didn't actually felt they had to be wary of this William Turner. It was the other way around, truthfully. He was strong, powerful, but not an enemy. Just as the Lady of the Light, or Mithrandir, could be.

But it wasn't what was so difficult to bear when being next to this man.

The power was nothing. It wasn't even half as disturbing as the grief, pain, sadness, suffering, weariness, distress, and sorrow, that they had seen in the man's eyes when they had left the others behind.

William Turner had been looking at his wife, and his gaze had been normal.

And then, they had turned around, his eyes had left his wife.

The elves had seen it suddenly weight in the man's gaze, though his other features seemed unfazed.

If the man had been an elf, they'd have said he was fading.

More than fading. About to disappear. The last stage.

But this man wasn't an elf, and still his eyes were too old and hurt for a man.

The guards couldn't help to turn away, when their eyes met the man's, and still they couldn't help but to look back at him from time to time, as if in hope that it had all been a trick of their mind. That William Turner wasn't this wrong, whatever it could possibly mean.

But at some point, their eyes would meet.

And they would see utter despair in them. It was there, in this man's eyes, in this man's heart, like a terrible shadow weighting upon his very being. It was there, even when William Turner wasn't thinking about it. It remained here. It never went anywhere, lingering in the unseen rifts of this man's mind.

And the elves weren't the only ones who had noticed the change that had happened with the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ , as soon as they had left the others.

Legolas had seen it, too. For him, it held a different meaning, for he knew what the guards ignored. If William Turner was immortal... How old could he be? And more importantly, how much time had passed since his wife had died of old age?

The Elvenprince wasn't going to be fooled by the appearances.

Sure, the man didn't look like he was about to break down, though there seemed to be something heavy following him, refraining him from being happy. No, William Turner was only there, and it looked like nothing did matter anymore, as if he was on a field trip that he didn't quite enjoy, and not thrown into a different world.

But Legolas knew this face. He knew it too well.

It was his father's, when nothing of importance held his attention.

During these times, when he looked like that, the Elvenking wasn't always thinking of Aeweryn. But her loss was there, looming over his head, weighting upon his shoulders. And those who knew him a bit, could tell. They could see the hidden stiffness, and the cold in his eyes. Legolas knew his father, or at least he knew him a bit.

This face, it was Thranduil Oropherion's after the loss of his wife.

Legolas didn't like it, this face. It was the reminder of all the time he hadn't had with his mother. It was the reminder that his father wasn't meant to be happy anymore.

Yet, the elf liked it better than the face the Elvenking made when he looked at him, and his mask failed to hide his feelings completely. This face... This face he hated, for it was as if his father was blaming him for something. As if he hoped to see someone else, something more in his son's face, and every single time, there was only Legolas to be seen. No one else. Nothing more. And each time the king's mask would fall, Thranduil would look away from his son after only a few moments.

Sometimes, Legolas wondered why.

It happened that, when alone in the night following a day his father had looked at him like that, Legolas would lie in wait, unable to sleep. He would look at the ceiling of his room.

And he would wonder.

What had he done to be so hated by his father? What was it, that Thranduil expected to see when he looked at him, and that wasn't there, no matter how much Legolas tried to be worthy of his father? And why was it, that his great-uncle, his mother's only kin remaining in Arda, always refused to meet him? Why had his mother died? Why was his family so broken, and why did he sometimes felt as if it was all his fault?

Some nights, as he thought, a creeping darkness got a hold of his heart, and Leoglas feared.

Was this the reason?

Had he, perhaps, been the reason to his mother's death? Had his birth been the making of her coffin?

Was it because of him, that his family was broken, and was it because of that, that both Thranduil and Amros couldn't bear to look at him?

Had he killed his mother?

The Elvenprince pushed the thoughts out of his mind. It wasn't the time to be worrying about this. He knew his father loved him, though he didn't know for Amros. And if the Elvenking didn't actually love him, and he was only imagining things to feel better, so be it. Now was not the time to worry about that.

The elf wondered how his father would react to seeing four men with his face. Would he look at them the same way he looked at him? Would there be the same deception, in the king's eyes, as when he looked at Legolas? Or would Thranduil be able to look them in the eyes, precisely because, if they had his son's face, they weren't him?

So Legolas looked at William, who walked before him, and at the iron chest that the man had retrieved from the orcs' lair. The elf tilted his head. There was something odd about this chest. No. About what it contained. It almost felt... as if it were a part of the man walking before him.

And as Legolas wondered about his father, about William's beloved, and about the chest, Brian wondered about the fact that William Turner had almost gone frigid as soon as they had left the others. To him, it looked as if suddenly, his lookalike had decided he didn't need a mask anymore. As if now that he was away from those who would worry about him, he could stop pretending that he was fine.

Brian thought about slowing down to get next to Turner, and maybe, ask if everything was really alright. It wasn't like him to do something like that, but well.

A lot of things had happened, lately. He could act a bit out of character, and the ones he travelled with wouldn't even know. After all, they didn't know him to begin with.

Or maybe it had to do with there being no alcohol around, not even a beer, that he could use to stop himself from thinking. Thinking about his ex-wife, about his eluding son, about his murdured friends. Thinking about the fact that once again, he had nothing left. That he had no future, and his past was hell. That only the present was there for him, and that the present never lasted, turning into the past in the blink of an eye.

Maybe the fact that there was nothing to get drunk with, and that these people were strangers, told him he could open up to them. Start behaving like a proper human being, for once.

Not having anything to drink was strange, Brian thought, frowning. It put strange thoughts in his mind, and he didn't like it. It was easier not to be a proper human being. It was easier not to feel like crying, or like blowing his head with the gun he didn't have with him.

He needed something to drink, and to make him forget.

Right now, the best he had was talking about someone else's problems. And solving mysteries.

So, talking to William Turner.

But before Brian got to do anything, he heard someone speak, and turned around to look at the one who had the same voice as him, and yet was not him, and who had talked.

“ _There's something wrong with this chest...”_

It was Paris, muttering between his clenched teeth, and trying as hard a he could to think about something else than the fact that he had managed to get at least half of his city, and worse, family, killed.

So the Trojan had looked at the first thing he could see as soon as they had left the others.

His eyes had landed on the iron chest that one of his lookalikes was keeping with him. And for the whole trip up till now, he had stared at it, feeling there was something very, very wrong.

Maybe he wasn't Odysseus, whose ancestry was so grand it was completely unbelievable. Grandson of Aeolus, and great-grandson of Hermes, which made him the great-great-grandson of Zeus and Maia, by the way. Unbelievable. But anyway.

Maybe he wasn't Helen, who was simply Zeus' daughter. Wait, didn't it meant that somehow Helen was something of a great-great-aunt to Odysseus? Weird. Too weird. Disturbing, actually. Let's forget that right away.

But Paris was still a nymph's grandson, and her power was strong enough in his blood for him to tell that there was something going on with that chest.

Or rather, with what was in it.

Magic. Power. Life as well as death.

And dread.

That was what he could feel, when he looked at this chest. It was the same feeling he had had when the man holding the chest had been summoned to the underground cave. That terrifying dread... It was it. Less strong. But it was it.

Paris hadn't meant to speak out loud. It had just gone out, like that. It surely had to do with him feeling so tense. After all, he had just been magicked out of a Troy-being-destructed-right-before-his-eyes and into a monsters' lairs. Nothing to get cranky about, right?

But he had talked, even if it had truly only been muttering, and the others had heard him. He could tell, for he saw their legs stop moving. They had come to a stop, and they looked at him. Paris looked up from the chest, and his eyes sought Brian Epkeen's for the man was the only one who could understand him.

Or so he thought.

His eyes jumped back to the one holding the strange chest, William Turner, as the man talked to him.

In his language.

“ _Maybe there is something wrong with this chest, but it is surely not your business, Paris of Troy.”_

Paris blinked, pretty sure that William Turner wasn't supposed to speak his language. He hadn't said he could, back in the cave.

Why would the man lie?

Someone else spoke Paris' surprise, though not in words the prince could understand.

“ _Vous parlez Grec?”_

Will sighed, and walked to Balian of Ibelin. They all started walking again. They had some distance to cover to get back to the Halls, and it was bad enough that they couldn't do without sleeping at least for the darkest hours to pass. The elves knew their way, and they were sure-footed. Brian, Will, Balian and Paris weren't exactly clumsy, but still.

As they resumed moving, willing to make use of the last light of the day, Will finally responded to his fellow, if ignored, blacksmith.

“ _Et français.”_

With no accent at all, Balian noticed.

“ _Pourquoi ne pas l'avoir dit plus tôt? Je préfère avoir quelqu'un qui comprend ce que je dis à mes côtés, bien sûr, mais vous n'auriez pas dû le cacher aux autres.”_

Will was about to answer the question, but Brian Epkeen almost instantly started to rant about how he had been ridiculizing himself in Greek when there was someone else who could speak it, and better than him or Elizabeth and the former queen of Jerusalem.

“I didn't say it, because my wife thinks we are only separated by a time lapse of a few months, maybe one or two years, and I'm not supposed to be able to talk either Greek or French. She won't possibly believe that I learned two languages so quickly.”

Brian arched an eyebrow at that. More secrets, was it?

“And why would you want her to think there was less time between your two timelines? 'Got something to hide, perhaps?”

William almost snapped, but eventually managed to rein it in. It had taken him two centuries, but he had finally gotten a hold of his temper. Though repressing it often made him sound a bit arrogant.

“I don't want her to know, because I don't want her to worry about me. Now, if we could stop talking about my dead wife that is yet alive thanks to weird time travels, I have other things to say to you, that I couldn't say before because Elizabeth would have wondered how I knew, and she would have gotten me to spill it, and after that she'd have worried about me.”

There was a long silence from the other walkers, that Will used to translate, in a more pacifist version of course, what he had just said, to Paris and Balian.

After that no one dared to make a comment about how he had lied to his wife. They were all a bit disturbed by knowing that the blond woman they had been with only hours before, was dead to her husband, in his timeline.

Balian looked at his widower lookalike, knowing very well how it felt, to lose a loved one, and yet unable to even imagine what it was like, to William Turner, to see her again, but a “her” that was from another time, a long gone past, or, in on word, a memory.

The elves were glancing nervously at the captain of the _Dutchman_. Even Legolas, who had already surmised this much, had a hard time considering that his guess was, indeed, the truth. As for the guards, they were sharing knowing looks behind the back of their prince and of the man.

No wonder he was this somber, if his wife was dead, and he was now seeing what must have seemed to him, either like a dream, or like a nightmare. His wife, back from the dead, but ignoring she even was, because she wasn't yet. A ghost of another time, of a reality that no longer existed, had walked right back into his life.

And, to say the truth, the guards were starting to feel very disturbed by this man.

William Turner had the face of the Elvenprince, but it wasn't only this. Like the three other men who shared these features, he also had the eye and hair colors of the late Elvenqueen. And worst than anything else, it seemed he had more or less the personality of the Elvenking.

Because what they had just seen, it was the exact way King Thranduil lashed out at someone. The cold, freezing words, that sounded almost poisonous. And that way he had to say exactly what hurt, even when it hurt him too... It hurt even more because of that, because they felt saying it had hurt him, and he had said it only because of their prying.

This was a pure Elvenking moment, and if the guards hadn't known better, they would have sworn that William Turner was in fact the hidden son of Thranduil and Aeweryn, disguised as a man. Which was, obviously, ridiculous. But as Orodir had thought sooner that day, it could only be coincidences.

Couldn't it?

As for Brian, he looked mostly unmoved. As a detective he had seen worse. Sometimes, people not only verbally attacked him, but did so physically too. Turner's speech, he had to admit, was harsh, and he would have felt guilty, if not for the fact that he knew there was more, and the man wasn't saying everything.

At least, there hadn't been any insults, nor any punches. Turner knew what he was doing, to make them feel uncomfortable, but he wasn't one to do any real harm without a good reason, it seemed.

Brian guessed it was better than nothing, even if he man was still lying.

As for Elizabeth Swann / Turner being dead...

Well, people died. Brian was used to that. He was a detective, after all. His job was to investigate suspicious deaths. He had seen more corpses than many. And lately, he had seen people he'd have rather not seen as corpses just as such.

It would took just as much to make him flinch.

Good thing he knew no one in this world, wasn't it?

The young woman seemed pretty alive, for now. He wasn't going to brood over her being possibly, in an unclear future, supposing they ever got back to their original timelines, dead.

So Brian waited a bit, for it to sink in and dull a bit, and then went back to what had been told before Turner started to get unpleasant. Not that he didn't have a reason to be. Brian wasn't questioning his attitude. Him too would be a bit unpleasant if he was in the man's shoes.

But as it was, there were things to be told, and mysteries to unfold.

And apparently, William Turner held some of the answers.

“You said you had a piece of information to share?”

The elven guards were keeping watch as they walked, in case they met an host of orcs again. Legolas deemed he could move his attention back to his lookalikes.

Just as he did so, William looked at him.

“Which Age it is exactly?”

The elf frowned, surprised that the immortal man would ask such a thing. If anything, he would have expected to be asked the year, or even a simple “when”. After all, if the four men were from different times, maybe different worlds, it was very possible they didn't share his way to count the years.

“Third Age. November 3017, to be precise. Why?”

Will sighed, making some quick math.

“Well... Paris over there is from the Sixth Age. Roughly eight thousands years have passed between this time and his, for his time was around twelve centuries before the beginning of the Seventh Age. Balian was born in the twelfth century, me in the eighteenth century, and Brian in the twentieth.”

Said detective didn't miss the fact that a man born two to three hundred years before him knew how to recognize someone from what would be, to him, the future. He sure as hell had no idea what to make of it, but he noted it in the back of his mind.

For now, he'd settle to ask for the obvious.

“Sixth and Seventh Ages?”

Turner nodded.

“To make it short, there were five Ages before the Antiquity. At the end of the Fifth Age, the Valar were somehow forced out of their realm, a place of immortality where all the elves have travelled between this Age and ours. I don't know more, for it is a Maia who told me about it, just like that, in passing. The Valar would be the gods of Olympus to Paris, and the archangels to the Christians. The Maiar... Well, I guess they might be the lesser greek gods and the various nymphs, great spirits and the like. Or the normal angels. More or less. It's complicated.”

“Wait, you're telling me that angels exist?”

Will arched an eyebrow at his lookalike. The man had just been taken away from his time and country to land in a strange forest with monsters, and he had difficulties believing that angels were real?

“And God.”

Seeing Legolas' inquiring look, Will finished his sentence.

“Eru Ilúvatar would be his name in this time. Anyway. So, for the whole Sixth Age, all the Valar and Maiar ended up stuck on Earth with us mortals. Their memories were altered, and they had no idea who they were exactly nor how to go back to Aman, their land. Sometimes, strange things happened to them. The nymphs, for example, are all parts of six Maiar who were literally and individually split in several beings. They caused much havoc, truth to be said, with their powers and without their wisdom, and they even had children with mortals once in a while. Paris and Cassandra of Troy's paternal grandmother is a water nymph, a Naiad. Odysseus of Ithaca is of even more illustrious ancestry, with Zeus, king of the gods and god of the sky, as an ancestor, Hermes, Zeus' Vala son with a Maia, as a great-grandfather, and on his mother's side, Aeolus, a lesser god of the winds, so a Maia. I know from a trusted source that the various 'Aeolus' known by my time are in fact all this one... It's difficult to tell, really, because the Valar and Maiar sometimes used different bodies when on Arda, Earth, back then, and they even stole each other's appearances from time to time...”

Will's mind drifted to his last conversation with Calypso, and how much she had told him, back then, as if she had expected him to need the knowledge, one day...

As if she had known he would be here, this day, with these people who looked so much like him.

He snapped back to reality when Legolas asked, wondering if maybe he had heard wrongly, if that meant that the very Odysseus they had left back next to the clearing was truly of Manwë's blood.

Will laughed quietly at the face all the elves were pulling at him, since they had heard that last statement.

“Well, at least, according to Calypso, who was quite a liar despite being a Maia, Zeus is truly Manwë's greek name. Hermes will only be born in the chaos of the Sixth Age, so it is not surprising that you never heard of him. As for Aeolus... Calypso wouldn't tell me his true name, for whatever reason she was hiding... Well, I guess she knew I would be pulled to the Third Age, and maybe hear of him, and that wouldn't do... After all, for her, this had already happened.”

Will started to translate his last speech to Balian, since he was the only one who could speak French.

Brian, truthfully, could say three words in that language: _Bonjour_ , _Aurevoir_ , and _français_. It wasn't even that he was glad to be rid of the duty of interpreter, it was simply that he couldn't do it. So instead, he spent the next time thinking.

He could have interpreted Turner's words to Paris, but he was confident that the man was way better at speaking Greek than he was. And the trojan prince looked deep in thought, as they walked in the dying light of the evening. So he wasn't going to disturb him.

Will soon turned to Paris, and repeated what he had just said.

Paris nodded, and didn't comment.

After another half hour, Legolas made them stop to sleep. The elves could have continued to the Halls, but it was too dark for the men, and they were starting to get tired.

Well, Balian, Brian and Paris were starting to look tired. William... He was just there, walking, without breaking a sweat, as were the elves. The only thing was that he sometimes walked into a root or something else, for he hadn't quite the same eyesight. But truly, he seemed not to be tired at all.

Legolas guessed it had to do with the heartless thing. He really had to ask the man what exactly he could do, because this was... fascinating, in a way. Healing so fast...

Two elves sat on opposite sides of their little camp, watching over the dark forest of Mirkwood for attackers. The guards would take turns watching, but they had excluded the Elvenprince from the turns of duty. Legolas had tried to argue a bit, but he wasn't very adamant to take a turn in the first place. He had lost a lot of blood, he was tired, and was now sure he was suffering from a light fever. He wouldn't make a good look-out.

Before any of the men could sleep, Paris, who had been staring at Legolas for a good twenty minutes, frowning before glancing at the other elves and then looking back at the prince, spoke.

Brian arched an eyebrow at his question.

“Paris' asking if it's normal that you don't glow like the others.”

Then the man frowned too, looking at his elven-and-blond-and-god-it-was-annoying-that-the-prince-didn't-have-so-much-as-a-wrinkle lookalike.

“Wait, elves glow? I hadn't noticed...”

Brian looked at the guards, and indeed, they glowed a bit. It was almost not visible, but now that the sun had completely disappeared, and the stars weren't luminous enough for their light to pass through the foliage...

The elves weren't glowing-in-the-dark targets, don't get him wrong. If you just happened to look in their direction, you at best noticed there was something in the dark, that you could make out a form, but what exactly? No idea.

But as he knew they were there, Brian could tell that they glowed slightly.

Legolas, on the other hand...

“He's right. You're not glowing.”

By now, all the elves were looking at their prince, a horrified look on their faces.

Legolas himself had become pale as death. He remained still for a few seconds, before his eyes traveled down to his hands, that, effectively, weren't emitting the faint glow anymore. Their glow was what allowed elves to recognize each other even over long distances, and only elves, because they were the only ones to have a sight capable of seeing the very faint glow from afar.

There were only two reasons for an elf to lose their glow.

The first one was death, since the soul went to the Halls of Mandos. No matter how bad his state was, Legolas could say that he wasn't dead yet.

The other reason...

It was almost a myth, for it hadn't happened in a long time. Ages, truly. Even Thranduil was too young to have witnessed it. Not that anyone who had witnessed it would have still been in a state to spoke of it afterwards.

The only other reason known for an elf to lose his glow, was that they were becoming an orc.

When Morgoth had corrupted elves to work for him, it had created the orcs, who were beings of darkness, and certainly couldn't keep their former glow without suffering. Of these first orcs, many had perished in battle, and it was said that their immortal soul would stay for millenia in the Halls before being released, pure elves once again.

The next generations of orcs had never been elven to begin with, and would simply move on, as did the souls of mortals.

Legolas knew that very well. Threatening an elfling who misbehaved with becoming an orc wasn't something elven parents did, for it was too serious a matter to say such things. But Thranduil had sometimes been so furious, most of all when his young son had tried to sneak in his father's private cave, that it had come to that. Legolas would never forget how his father had described to him all that was known of the process to corrupt an elf to such an extent. How the Elvenking's scar had been showing in his rage, and how his voice had been freezing as he spoke.

The prince would never forget how he had believed that his father didn't really love him.

But now was not the time to worry about that.

He wasn't glowing anymore.

Legolas panicked, wondering if perhaps it was a side effect of the morgul-crafted dagger.

The panic rose in him so completely that suddenly, his glow flared into existence, twice as bright as usual, before dimming back to its normal state.

All the elves sighed, but the Elvenprince still wasn't satisfied. He closed his eyes, searching for something, what he wasn't sure, but maybe an answer. Nothing more. He wanted to know what exactly had happened in this cave...

As Legolas wondered about what had caused his glow to disappear, he suddenly noticed that he felt, not only weak because of the loss of blood, but different. Not badly different. Just different.

He frowned, and looked at his skin. His glow disappeared. An elf gasped. Legolas blinked, unsure that he had gotten it right, but aware that he had, if not understood, at least discovered something.

He focused, and the glow was back.

Well... That could come in handy. If it didn't become a problem, that is.

 


	4. Elves and mortals

**TA 3017, November**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Legolas' camp**

 

One of the elven guards on the look-out glanced back at the sleeping people behind him.

The other guards were sleeping with their eyes open, nothing out of the ordinary. He just hoped none of the mortals would wake up in the night, believe them dead, and scream. It wouldn't be the first time such a thing happened, truly. If only he had thought to tell them beforehand...

Then there was the Elvenprince.

The guard was obviously worried about the prince. Even if Legolas had been able to restore his glow just by focusing, the elf was worried. Surely the prince wasn't turning into an orc? No, he didn't think that was it. It had felt more like... like magic.

But there was magic, and magic. There was elven magic, and magic. This was not elven magic.

Elven magic was what the Elvenking used to mask his wounds. Elven magic was what the smiths used to make their blades gleam blue when orcs were near. Elven magic could be used by every single elf that lived, as long as they had been taught how to, of course.

Magic was what the Ainur could use. It was what their closest descendants, such as Elrond, could use to an extent. It was what witches and wizards could use, because they were born with it for some obscure reason. Galadriel as well as the Witch King of Angmar had such magic.

Legolas Thranduilion wasn't supposed to be able to do magic. He never had, and he didn't have a peculiar ancestry to explain why he would be able to. There was no reason for him to be able to use such magic.

And still, the prince could now stop his glow at will. Was it all that he could do?

Was it truly what he could do? Wasn't it someone else's magic, that had infected him, perhaps? What if this sparkle of power could act as a tracker of sort, for the one to whom belonged this power? There had been this morgul-crafted dagger, after all...

The guard shook his head. There was no point worrying about it now. They couldn't do a thing here, not even check on the Elvenprince's health.

But there was also the matter of the mortals. Some were odder than other, and speaking of magic, the elf suspected they might be able to use some, even if they weren't all conscious of it. If the Turner man was to be believed, there were at least three Maiar's descendants amongst them, one of which was also of Manwë's blood.

The elven guard turned a bit, to look at the man who puzzled him so much. One glance was enough, and the elf looked away. He shuddered.

William Turner wasn't sleeping. He was lying there, on the ground, but his eyes were open, and he was staring at nothing in particular, and he wasn't sleeping.

 

 

**Orodir's party**

 

The sun rose for a new day, and upon Cassandra's face. But the princess didn't wake up.

“What's with her?”

“I frankly don't know. It seems to me that she's having a nightmare. Maybe we should try to wake her up?”

Elizabeth bent over the young woman, and shook her gently. They had to depart, if they wanted to get to the Elvenking's Halls before too long, but unlike the others, the trojan princess had kept on sleeping. Considering that she had but lately seen her city on fire, Orodir had agreed to let her rest a bit more while they got themselves ready.

At last, Cassandra stopped trashing, and opened her eyes. She felt terrible, always more terrified by the power to the South-East. All of her nightmares had somehow featured the great red eye, that would look through her each time, but that would always come closer to seeing her, even if it was not searching for her specifically.

Her breathing was heavy, and the fear must have been visible in her eyes, for Elizabeth Swann asked if something was wrong.

She kept her impressions to herself, and they started moving, slowly. The elves, as well as Elizabeth, Odysseus and Sibylla, had taken a look at Norrington's wound, and they had all agreed that making him walk would be the same as making him walk to an early grave. Despite the man's protests, they had made a makeshift stretcher, that the ithacan king and one elf would take to the nearest settlement, while the others would follow and keep an eye open in case they were to be attacked once again.

Elizabeth walked next to James' stretcher, who from time to time, would try to convince her that he in fact could walk on his own. The Pirate King and the elf that was carrying the back of the stretcher would share a doubtful look, and ignore him.

As his efforts were seemingly for nothing, Norrington relented after a time.

“So, you wed Turner.”

It was more of a statement than a question.

“It would seem so, yes. Even if I can't say I have already done so, for Will is ahead in time. But, James, I am certain you remember it was already to be the case one year ago, even if that dwarf-sized Beckett has ruined my wedding by trying to accuse the both, no, the three of us, of treason.”

James grumbled something about the dratted employee of the East Indian Company. Elizabeth stiffled a laugh.

“Hey, you are the one who went over to his side, then came back to your senses and saved my life. I'm sure you know him better than I do.”

The man pretended that his wound hurt.

He didn't want to speak about his time at Beckett's service. He had been trying to get his life back, but all he had gained was to see dozens of innocents be hung alongside pirates. And he hadn't even been back in the Navy, but a mere mercenary for the obnoxious lord.

Not exactly what he had hoped for.

He noticed the concerned look on Elizabeth's face.

Well, it was true that his wound hurt.

“Don't look like that, Miss Swann. I have yet to die.”

The woman's answer was but a whisper.

“I truly thought you did.”

Just before them, carrying the front of the stretcher, Odysseus listened to all that was said, even if he couldn't understand what it meant. He was an incredibly clever man, and already he had picked two or three words in the various languages that were spoken by the elves and mortals.

Unlike others heroes of the Antiquity, the ithacan king had learned on his own to use his greater blood to its utmost. Sure, he hadn't been able to learn anything about magic, because that was one thing one couldn't master without help. But he wasn't relying only on his greater strength and thoughness.

Without even meaning it, he had made use of his great ancestry all his life. Perhaps his cunning and his wisdom came from his illustrious ancestors. Nevertheless, he had chosen to accept and utilize them; not all the children of the gods could claim to have listened to their natural qualities. Achilles, for example, had hardly made good use of his superiority...

Odysseus was exceptionnal in more than one way.

And in this time, it would help him greatly. No one would learn to speak the others' tongues as quickly as he would, let alone faster, in the memories of the Third Age.

Behind them, Orodir and a guard were talking in sindarin, so that the mortals wouldn't understand them. They were worried, and, don't get them wrong, not by the strangers, but for them.

For the trojan princess and the injured man more than for the others.

“ _I don't know, captain, but the young one seems to be rather pale. The man is gravely injured, but it should be alright. What concerns me is that mortal woman, truly. She doesn't seem to be weak, and she doesn't stagger, but she looks positively frightened. And it's getting worse by the hour.”_

Orodir didn't answer right away, prefering to observe the princess for a time before saying anything.

After a good ten minutes of observation, the elven captain had to admit that the ellon had been right. The young woman could walk on her own, and didn't seem to be having a hard time at it, but she was slightly shivering. She walked with her eyes down to the earth, and was startled by the least of sounds. She kept away from everyone, but still she walked in the middle of their group, as if to hide herself.

It was only after those ten minutes that Orodir finally noticed something odd, that worried him deeply. They had just turned a bit more to the North.

His throat felt dry.

“ _I fear there is nothing we can do to reassure her.”_

The guard frowned.

“ _What do you mean?”_

“ _We were walking with the South-East in our back, so it was hard to notice, but if you look attentively, now that we have turned, her head is not only down, but also slightly to the left. I don't know how, nor why, but it is Mordor that she fears. She is right to, assuredly, but she shouldn't even know of it, as she only arrived from a distant future.”_

After that, they said nothing else.

 

 

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave**

 

The Elvenking tried once again to get something, anything, to appear on the troubled water of the basin, but try as he might, nothing was happening.

Legolas had been taken by orcs the day before, and there hadn't been any other news since then. He had tried to see something in the basin, something about his son, something about his sons, but no matter how many time he tried, the water stayed troubled, and nothing else. There was no telling what had happened to Legolas after the capture, and the fact that he couldn't even check on his other sons, when they at least should be safe, made him think that it wasn't the case.

When the midwife of his children had come to him, not long after the news of the ill-fated encounter with orcs, wags and spiders, the elleth had been frantic.

Thranduil had seen why as soon as he had set foot in his secret cave.

It wasn't difficult to guess, really.

Whatever happened to the mortal versions of his sons, happened to their elven bodies. The Elvenking had learned of it with great dismay, the first time Inasthol had been wounded, centuries before. He had also witnessed the carving of Will's heart out of his chest in more than one way. Seeing it in the basin had been dreadful, surely, but it wasn't anything compared to when he had finally acknowledged that the chest of his son was being cut open in front of him by some invisible hands. And well, he had seen it in the basin only after he had been left with a beating heart in his hands, for he could only see blinks of the nearest past with it.

The midwife had been frantic, because not only the Elvenprince had disappeared, but also his unconscious brother Raudamon had started bleeding all of a sudden. Blood had started dripping between his unmoving lips, and, when Thranduil had come into the room, he had found his son with dried blood all over his mouth and his neck.

After that, it had only gone downwards.

Inasthol's chest had been ripped open as if by a gruesome orc. Two of his ribs had broken. And finally, one of the broken bit of bone had literally jumped out of the sleeping elf's body.

Then only the wound had closed on its own. The other bit of bone had been taken out, but more gently, possibly by William himself, a few hours into the night.

After that, there had been a few scratches. Though they weren't grave, Thranduil had grown more and more worried, as Firlach injured lightly his hand, and Hirban got a small cut on his forehead. It wasn't much, true. But now, all of his sons had been injured in the same day. The Elvenking coudn't possibly believe this was all a coincidence, could he?

What had happened?

What. Had. Happened?

This question had been turning and whirling and swaying in his head for hours. What had happened?

And he couldn't go out, and he couldn't go after Legolas, he couldn't go search for him, because he was the king, and the king couldn't disappear when the prince had already done so, and there was neither a queen nor another heir to take over if something happened, be it to them or while they were away. He couldn't leave this room, this cave where lied his greatest secrets, to look for his son, when it was this obvious that his other sons were also in danger, and he could do nothing, but stay there in fear, looking at these lifeless bodies, at this mute basin, at the wretched state of his life. What had happened?

He had sent out scouts, of course, as well as more soldiers who were by now posted in the various settlements of Greenwood, in case more creatures would attack the villages and the city around his Halls. The scouts were to search the forest for Legolas, or the patrol that the Elvenprince had been with. The only guard who was allowed in the cave with the midwife would bring him the reports, but there was simply nothing to be told. Nothing at all. What had happened?

A sob died in Thranduil's throat. He had long forgotten how it was to cry.

Why did it have to happen?

 

 

**The forest – Legolas' party**

 

Legolas started to really recognize where they were around eleven in the morning. If he wasn't wrong, they wouldn't have to walk much more before they'd get to see the first house of a village.

Greenwood the Great was his father's kingdom, and he knew it almost by heart. Truth to be told, when one couldn't look their father in the eyes without the latter looking depressed, and with nearly two thousands years to busy themselves through, one could only know the place where they lived quite well. So many times, without actually getting out of the kingdom, Legolas had wished so bad to be out of the Halls that he had visited every place in the northern Greenwood.

The Halls were the Elvenking's castle, in a way, and the heart of the kingdom. The royal quarters were often referred to as the the king's palace. But the elves of Greenwood didn't all live in the castle. There was a large city surrounding the Halls, and, in fact, even above the Halls, since the castle was underground. There, the elves lived in houses as well as talans. And in all of the northern part of the forest, there were villages of various sizes. Only the south was inhabited, for Dol Guldor shadowed this part of the forest. Thinking about that hill often made Thranduil cringe, for it had been the capital of his father, long ago, before a great evil had settled there.

The point was, they were back into Greenwood the Great, he had regained his energy, and there wasn't much time left before there would be too many elves around for Legolas to have a discreet conversation with William.

It was almost funny, how all of his lookalikes were walking as far away from the others as possible. It made him a bit sad, for some obscure reason, but it was still quite comical. He guessed that, as Paris and Balian couldn't speak and be understood, it was normal for them to stay by themselves. As for Brian, the man kept to himself, surely, but he was definitely observing all of them under the guise of solitude.

William was the only one, truly, to be really used to supernatural things happening to him. Maybe that was why he wasn't as difficult to approach.

And well, Legolas wanted to know about that broken rib of his that had been gallivanting around his organs when they had left the orcs' lair. He wanted to know many other things too, true, but that was his main concern.

The elf slowed down a bit, to be at Will's side.

The immortal man arched an eyebrow at him. Without realizing it, Legolas mimicked the eyebrow motion. It was something he did quite often too.

Will smirked a bit at their shared mannerism, but there wasn't much mirth in his smirk.

“What is it, your majesty?”

The eyebrow rose higher than the first time.

“'Your majesty'? Truly?”

William shrugged, both eyebrows raised.

“Well, you are a prince, are you not?”

“Who care about those things?”

An elven guard coughed behind them, and Legolas rolled his eyes.

“Alright, some people do care. I don't. We've got the same face, and I'm not going to be called 'your majesty' by someone who looks like me. It is strange enough as it is.”

Legolas then spoke more quietly.

“Do your lungs hurt less than yesterday?”

“I removed the broken rib during the night.”

“Ah. Wait, how did you do that?”

“The same way that monster hurt me, only, much more carefully.”

Legolas looked like he was going to be sick as the memory of the orc opening the man's chest came to his mind. He didn't want to let his imagination wander at how exactely Will had had to act to get the bone out of his body.

“Don't try to imagine. It's utterly disgusting, I can tell you that much. The pain is alright, I'm used to it, but that doesn't mean it gets better to look at with the time. There's usually lot of blood involved, and it's gross to forage my own fl... I'll stop there.”

Legolas nodded gratefully, a bit green.

“But didn't the look-outs see you?”

Will smirked again, and this time his smirk was even sadder than usual, with some sort of longing in it, too. As if behind the secret of his discretion lied something he couldn't have.

“Oh, they couldn't even look at me for more than three seconds. I think me not sleeping of the whole night was a bit too creepy for them.”

Legolas tensed at that, and turned his head to see his lookalike better.

“You haven't slept?”

Will's smirk disappeared altogether.

“I can't sleep. If I do, I have nightmares. It's not really a problem, for I am not really...”

He looked discreetly but anxiously at the others, then at Legolas.

The captain of the _Dutchman_ couldn't really go telling others what or who he was. The supernatural usually got him into trouble. There, it might not be so much of a problem. After all, they were elves. They were not normal human beings.

Still, he didn't doubt his blond lookalike and the guards were normal elves. They were part of a group of supernatural beings. Him, he could be considered in two different ways: either he was a normal undead being in a group of one such monster, or he was an abnormal human being.

After a silence, he finally decided he needed someone to trust with his secret. Back on the _Flying Dutchman_ , there was his father, and two or three other people who had agreed to work for him as they had been at death's door. He would let them go to their eternal rest as soon as they felt ready for it. But here, in this Age, he was alone. He couldn't confide in Elizabeth without worrying her, he didn't know Anamaria well enough, and Norrington was simply... a direct no.

Legolas seemed to be taking this whole abducted-by-monsters,-drained-of-half-his-blood,-gifted-with-four-mortal-lookalikes-and-their-friends thing rather well. Well, considering the situation. That is, badly, but not too much. The elven prince had seen that he had no heart, could pass through objects, and healed in moments. Yet he was not keeping clear of him, nor had he talked of it to his guards. He was even asking how he felt.

“Listen, I am little more than a ghost with a physical form. I can't be killed because I am already dead. I heal quickly because I always go back to how I was when I died. I can still sleep, but I don't need to. It's the same with eating or drinking, I can go without doing it. I feel like I'm hungry, thirsty or tired, but it's only a memory of before. If I refuse to think about it, it just goes away. I'm a cursed man, whose duty is to ferry the souls of those who died at sea, to the next world. I usually can't walk upon earth more than once every ten years. Once, I looked at the sea for so long I stayed on the deck without moving for two years and a half. It's not a big deal if I don't sleep.”

Legolas had to maintain his composure as he listened. He really hoped none of the guards had been eavesdropping, for he didn't know how they would react to that. Himself, he found it hard to believe that the Valar would one day allow such a curse to even exist and not take action to nullify it.

But maybe William had done something to deserve this curse. Maybe it was a curse created by the Valar themselves...

No, he couldn't believe it.

Will was loved by this Elizabeth Swann, and she didn't seem to be one to fall for bad men. The man he was now talking to was several years, maybe decades, older than the William whom the woman would marry, but he was a good, if tortured, man. Legolas didn't believe that the immortal man had become bad at some point in Elizabeth's future, then good once again in Will's past. The idea didn't feel right to him.

To distract himself from the possible circumstances of the man's cursing, Legolas went back to another question that had been on his mind for quite some time already.

“How old are you?”

Will gave him a sidelong glance, but evaded his eyes in the end.

“Twenty-one.”

Legolas arched an eyebrow. He wasn't going to be fooled by that.

“And for how long have you been twenty-one years old?”

Will didn't answer right away, and the Elvenprince could tell he was weighing the pros and the cons of a honest answer.

“Seven hundred and seventeen years.”

“So that makes you seven hundred thirty-eight years old. You're still younger than me. I'm one thousand eight hundred and ninety years old.”

The man smiled ruefully.

“It's been a while since I've met someone older than me.”

At that moment, Legolas noticed that he could see the first houses. In fact, several soldiers were coming to them. He told the others to wait here, and ran to them before they'd notice the, well, striking similarities between him and four mortals, hoping that they'd give him four cloaks without asking questions. He didn't want elves to be staring at Balian, Paris, Brian and William, as if they were freaks or something.

It'd be bad enough when they'd get to his father.

He had to answer a few questions before he could go back with the cloaks, but fortunately none pertained to the use of said cloaks. No, he wasn't hurt badly, yes, that was blood, no, he had never said he was unhurt, so it wasn't a lie, no, there hadn't been any casualties, yes, the orcs had been killed, and what do you mean, his father had locked himself in that dratted cave?!

At last he came back, and handed the cloaks to the others.

“ _If anyone ask, they are badly disfigured by what the orcs did to them. I don't want gossip to get to the Elvenking before we do.”_

The scout that had stayed with this unit of soldiers had already ran back to the Halls to tell his king that the Elvenprince was back, and mainly well. Of course, Legolas was glad that his clothes kept his new scars invisibles. He surely didn't want anyone to gasp in horror at his misfortune.

 

 

**Halls of Thranduil**

 

When they at last arrived at the Halls, Thranduil had been told of his son's return, but the Elvenking loathed leaving his other sons, even if as unconscious as ever, alone, with the wounds they had lately suffered. He dragged himself out of his cave nonetheless, and made for the Rooms of Healing, where he was sure his son had been ushered to when his Seneschal had gotten his hands on him.

On the way, a soldier called out to him and informed him of what he knew. There were several mortals that had been rescued from a lair of orcs with the prince, and some of them had been sent ahead of the others, who had remained with the rest of the patrol. The soldier wasn't sure why these four exactly, for it was said they were in a terrible state, so much that the Elvenprince had asked cloaks for them, but on the other hand, it seemed that at least one of those who had stayed behind was in fact not fit for travelling quickly because of his wounds.

Thranduil dismissed the soldier, thanking him for his report, and hoping that he would find one of the elven guards from the patrol on his way, for he was certain those ones would have a better knowledge of the situation.

Several mortals, prisoners of the orcs of Dol Guldur... But why?

He pushed the thought out of his mind. For now, and for once, he'd be Legolas' father, before being the king of Greenwood the Great.

 

 

**Rooms of Healing**

 

Legolas and the others entered the room without a complain. Once in there, the prince ordered that no one, except the injured, the healers, and his father, was to be allowed inside. Two soldiers went to stand at the doors that opened on the Rooms of Healing, and these doors were shut.

“You can let go of the cloaks, now.”

Brian was the first one to get rid of his. Tired, the man went to sit on a bed.

Damn, it had been such a long walk... Breaking the neck of some monsters was alright with him, but that? It had been several years since he had last jogged around. Maybe he'd ought to change that...

The walk in itself had been interesting. For example, he knew he was something like ten thousands years in the past, and that God and angels were real. He hoped that didn't mean he had to say his prayers. He truthfully didn't remember any of these.

He had also learned by eavesdropping that William Turner was in fact a cursed old geezer, and the prince was even older. Apparently, elves not only glowed in the dark, but were also immortals. Or maybe they just had a very long lifespan.

What? It wasn't because the elves didn't feel like eavesdropping on their prince that he wasn't going to. Brian hated being kept in the dark, and there were already too many things that were unclear even to those who actually knew something, amongst whom he wasn't numbered, by the way. He was merely investigating his surroundings.

William sat down too, and didn't say a word.

Paris looked around in awe, at the carving of the room. When he had been told that the King's castle was in fact in a cave, he had been a bit frightened at what he would find himself into. He had imagined something crude, dark, and possibly dank. This was not.

He had carefully looked around as they were being ushered, to his blond lookalike's displeasure, to these rooms, and he could say the Halls were one huge cavern, and that he hadn't seen half of it yet. There were torches on all the walls, as well as a few luminous orange orbs, and before they had turned to the left, he had glimpsed a very large, very high, very long room at the end of the corridor, that was itself very large and long. Far away, so, he believed to have seen great bridges of stone, large columns carved as if they were trees, and platforms where a ray of natural light would fall.

Balian was silent, as usual, looking at the various weapons that they hadn't been asked to submit, surely thanks to Legolas, and that they had for now put to rest against one of the walls.

Paris' bow was a simple one, no doubt he had grabbed the first bow he had found to defend his life. His dagger, however, was of great quality, with three rond sapphires on the handle. William's sword was something he had never seen, so thin he'd have thought it a stiletto if it had been smaller; also, the handle was made of gold. Brian had no other weapons than his two hands, but he had proved they could be deadly enough in close combat. Legolas' knives were long and simply beautiful; as for his bow, Balian was no expert, but it was dark with golden patterns, and didn't seem to be just any bow; after all, its owner was a prince.

The blacksmith looked wistfully at his poor broadsword. He missed the Sword of Ibelin, but he couldn't go around with it without risking to be attacked by a thief. Sure, he could defend himself. Once, in Ibelin, he had had to face three knights that had been sent to murder him, and he had done away with them without a problem. Still, one never knew, and fortune wasn't always there. Moreover, he was just glad that he had been holding a sword when he had ended up in this hole of monsters, because he simply had no reason to hold a sword if not as a blacksmith. Blacksmiths didn't walk around with a sword at their hip, that was all.

Maybe he could make himself a better sword, if he was lucky enough. To live in these lands and times of the Earth, it seemed to him that it was better to be able to fight for one's life. He could fight for that. Only, it was easier with a weapon.

Yes, he'd forge a better sword. Maybe he could even make something that would remind him of the Sword of Ibelin. In memory of his father, and of the life he had lived before the king's death.

Something broke as it hit the floor, and Balian looked up.

When the midwife had come to the Rooms of Healing to see the Elvenprince, she hadn't expected to see that.

Neither had the healer who had just let go of the pot of water he was holding.

“ _Say, Ilin, am I seeing what I believe I am seeing?”_

Even in her astonishement, the elleth managed to make a smart answer.

“ _If you would tell me what you are seeing, maybe I could respond; but in case that's not what you are seeing, I believe the prince needs to be taken care of. He is just before your eyes. Do your job.”_

The ellon looked at her disbelievingly, but went nonetheless, occasionally glancing at one of the four mortals who shared the Elvenprince's features.

The midwife looked with wide eyes at the four mortals whom faces she knew so well, and who weren't supposed, first, to be mortals, second, to be here.

That one, with the bloodied face, the short hair, sitting upon a bed. He looked older than his elven counterpart did, not much, a bit, mannishly so of course, older, but there was no mistaking it. It was Raudamon. She had seen his face so many times during the last centuries, she had cleaned his wounds, that had started to appears a few decades before, and she had seen the tattoos on his left shoulder and the right side of his chest. She had been the first one to hold him when he was born, for the love of the Valar!

The one that stood against a wall, it was definitely Hirban. His hair was the color of his mother's but he had been the only one, with Legolas, to get the straight hair of his father. If she were to look at his hand, she knew he would have a cross burned in it. He had sustained several injuries, amongst which she had been sure numbered at least one arrow in the leg. Even if there had been no arrow, when she had seen the wound, she had known. She was a nando, after all.

Then there was the one who stood in the middle of the room, looking at her a bit shyly. Firlach had no particular scars, but the waves in his hair fooled no one. It was his mother's. She found him a bit tan, compared to his elven body, but mortals tanned under the sun. Maybe it was normal. His garb was nothing that she had ever seen, after all, though the pants were obviously elven. She guessed his were perhaps damaged, so he had been given these. Maybe he came from afar, where there was more sun than in Mirkwood. Not a difficult feat to achieve, that.

Finally, the other one sitting on one of the bed, and who had an iron chest next to him. If only for the iron chest, she could tell it was Inasthol. She shudered as she thought about what was likely to be in the chest. The Elvenking had had one pretty similar made when... The scar over the heart, and the small burn on the side on the hand. She was sure she would find them, if she wanted to make sure that these men were truly her king's sons.

But she had no need to check. She knew it.

The midwife slowly left the room, hoping that she would find Thranduil before he entered the Rooms of Healing. If the Elvenking was to see these sons that couldn't be without a warning, she wasn't sure he wouldn't have a heart attack and join his wife in the Halls of Mandos here and now.

“ _Firlach, Legolas, Inasthol, Raudamon and Hirban. All of them, in the same room, and breathing.”_

As she whispered these words, hardly able to believe them herself, she caught sight of the Elvenking coming at a hurried pace.

Ilin rushed to get to his side.

When Thranduil noticed her, he feared that something else had happened to his other sons. But as he was himself coming from the cave, the midwife couldn't possibly know something he didn't, could she? Almost reassured, the Elvenking stopped to hear her out.

They were just outside the Rooms of Healing. No one besides the guards were there to listen to what would be told. Ilin sighed, guessing that it could go wrong if someone learned of the four other Elvenprinces... or the fact that those four were currently mortals.

“ _I believe you saw Legolas? How is he?”_

“ _He seems tired, and it will leave... scars, but he is still in good health.”_

Thranduil then went for the door, but the elleth stood in his way. He frowned a bit, and one of the guards standing further away, near the doors to the Rooms of Healing, twitched.

The midwife hissed a warning as not to be overheard.

“ _King Thranduil, I am afraid I shall first tell you something about your sons, before you go and see the prince.”_

The plural didn't escape the Elvenking's notice.

“ _Go on, then.”_

“ _I don't know how it is possible, my king, but...”_

Ilin took a deep breath, still shocked by what she had seen back there, in the Rooms.

“ _They are there. The five of them. They came back together.”_

For a second, Thranduil's frame stiffened visibly, but soon the Elvenking was forcing his way to the Rooms of Healing. This time, however, the midwife let him pass, only wondering if she should have insisted for him to listen until the end; she hadn't been able to tell him about their mortality... Then again, it was the ellon's own fault for rushing in. Not that she could blame him. He had spent almost two millenia believing that he would never even talk to any of his four other sons...

The doors to the Rooms opened violently, startling Paris and the healer, who had finished his job and hurried to another patient. He didn't want to be in the way of his king.

Thranduil couldn't believe what he was seeing.

They were all there. They were really all there. Each one of his sons. William, who was so much like him in his grief. Balian and Legolas, who were just like their mother for their calmness, and yet so different from one another. Brian, who usually behaved like he did too, but that when the Elvenking was at his worst. Paris, who was barely more than a child, to tell the truth. They were there.

But... he couldn't tell them. They had their own parents. They wouldn't understand.

Inasthol, Hirban, Raudamon, and Firlach. Not all of them would accept it, if he were to tell them that he was, in reality, their father.

Inasthol was older than the three others, and he had managed to stabilize one relationship with a lost father already; moreover, he was used to unnatural things happening to him. He was the one, with Legolas, who was the most likely to accept the truth. Raudamon, on the other hand, had had a very bad relationship with his father; Thranduil wasn't so sure he would accept a new one to deal with. Hirban wouldn't mind having him as a father, but the Elvenking doubted he would acknowledge that it was possible. And Paris had had too good a relationship with his father, and he had just lost him too.

No, he couldn't tell them.

The king of the Woodland Realm schooled his features as best as he could, letting his worry for Legolas show, but not his feelings towards the four others. Maybe he would talk about it later, when they would know if the brothers would be staying in this era. He certainly wasn't going to burden his sons with a father that they might as well lose the following moring, waking up back in their own timelines. It didn't seem to be likely to happen, but getting his sons back in this Age hadn't seemed likely either, and yet they were here.

Legolas went to stand up, but his father asked him to stay put. And in fact, Thranduil went to sit next to his sons. After all, they were all a family, even if they didn't know that. There was no need for formalities here.

“What happened to you, _iôn-nin_?”

He spoke in the Common Speech, for his other sons to understand what was going to be said. Or, at least, for Brian and William to understand.

These were keeping silent, looking at the Elvenking with curiosity. Paris in particular was watching this elf, that looked no older than his son, but who was very obviously Legolas' father. The eyes and the hair were telltales. Perhaps elves were immortal?

Legolas told his father what had happened, producing the black dagger, showing the scars from the runes, and finally presenting his four lookalikes.

To keep his mind off Legolas' interrogations about why they looked, well, so much alike, Thranduil took a look at the dagger. Pity he didn't have a Mithrandir, an Elrond or a Galadriel to examinate it. Magic was their thing, not his. Him, he was a simple sinda, who could only do the usual elven magic, that is, glamours, listening to the nature, and the occasional participation in a grand-scale enchantment, with several other elves. Still, there was no mistaking this dagger for a normal one. There definitely was magic in it, and oddly, the presence that came from it reminded him of his sons as a whole.

“Apart from the summons, did the orcs use it for anything else?”

“No, _ada._ But...”

Legolas winced a bit, not willing to go there yet, but did he really have a choice?

Since he had come back, not once had his father looked at him with those eyes that made him feel as if he was lacking, as if there was something disappointing about him. There had been worry, anxiety, relief and joy in the Elvenking's eyes, but no sadness, no need to look somewhere else than at his son's face.

Legolas had forgotten how it felt, to be looked at like that by his father. In fact, he wasn't even sure his father had even once looked at him like that. He didn't want it to change.

“Don't panick, alright?”

Of course, saying that put Thranduil's mind on alert.

Legolas focused, and his glowing became feinter, causing his father to freeze on the spot. Before the Elvenking could say a word, Legolas let his glow back into shape, just to demonstrate that he was the one controlling it and it was only temporary. He didn't want his father to have a heart attack, after all.

“I don't know if it is because of the dagger, the summoning ceremony, or both, but now I can suppress it. And I hadn't noticed at first, but unlike before, I can see in the night as well as with daylight, now. In a way, it's a bit as if the night had accepted me completely...”

“Don't make it sound like a good thing when we don't know if it is. I suppose the healers won't know anything, and I don't want too many people in the kingdom to know about that, so I won't force you to see them. But you have to promise me that if you go to Imladris once again, you will get Elrond to take a look. I don't want my son to turn into an orc because we thought there was no real danger.”

Thranduil was pretty sure that on the other bed, Brian was rolling his eyes at his concern, but he didn't care. After all, Brian was Legolas' brother, even if he didn't know it. Legolas had more than once rolled his eyes at his father when he believed Thranduil couldn't see him.

Legolas sighed, even if the prospect to go to Imladris was a happy one. He hadn't visited the valley more than thrice in the last millenium, each time in his wandering after the Battle of the Five Armies, for the elves were less and less going out of their realms, too busy with keeping these safe from the growing darkness. And the millenium before, his father had deemed him “too young” to travel on his own...

“Yes, _ada_ , I'll go with Aragorn to Imladris if he pass by our kingdom.”

“Good. Now, is there anyone else who knows about your... predicament?”

“You make it sound as if I'm ill or something! There are only the elves from the patrol who came back with us. Paris noticed that I wasn't... glowing when we stopped for the night.”

The mention of Firlach forced Thranduil to look at his first son. Funny, how he was the youngest of the five despite his being born first.

What was he to do with his sons... that couldn't be sons to him?

The Elvenking cleared his throat, making sure to show his discomfort, if only because he wasn't supposed not to react as four men with Legolas' face had been summoned by orcs at the borders of his land, using his son to accomplish that, on the order of a mysterious person.

“I am sorry that you had to enter this Age by being beaten up by orcs. Time travel is unfortunately not something that has ever happened, from what I know, so I cannot offer you a mean to go back to your respective Ages. But I hope you, and the others who should arrive by tomorrow evening, or the next morning at worst, would accept to stay in my Halls for some time, at least until you decide what to do.”

Of course, Thranduil would have liked it very much if he could simply keep them with him until they got old and wrinkled. It was awful enough that three of his sons would age and die. It made him feel for Elrond, who was in the constant fear of his children's choice.

But he couldn't do that without explaining why he wanted to keep them around. And, in fact, he wouldn't be able to, even if he tried. William would just walk out of wherever he was, through bars if need be, and Brian would end up tricking a guard inconscious.

No parents should jail their children in their own house, anyway.

Brian was the one to answer.

“I can't speak for everyone, actually, I can't speak for anyone, because I know none of the others, but I appreciate your offer, if only for me to recover from various... murders attempts, that have been pulled on me lately.”

He glanced at the others, while Will continued his translation job with Balian and Paris.

All eventually agreed. It wasn't as if they had much of a choice.

The Elvenkind found that he breathed a bit more freely.

“I will call the healer back. Some of the orcs' weapons are poisoned, and you should sanitize even the scratches. As for you, you should get someone to look at these bruises. You are covered in them, and while I am sure you had them tended to in your time, I doubt you brought your ointments with you in this time.”

William suddenly stood up and walked to Brian, looking at the said bruises. They had all noticed the ones on his face and hands, but they hadn't actually had the opportunity to see the rest. As the captain of the _Dutchman_ pulled up the detective's sleeves, they all saw it wasn't only the face and the hands. Paris gasped in horror.

Brian shrugged, moving out of Will's reach.

“What? I told you, various murder attempts.”

The two would have started a staring contest, if Thranduil hadn't intervened. In this family, he wasn't the least obstinate, and he knew very well where his sons had gotten that personality trait.

The Elvenking called for a healer to take a look at Brian, as well as at Paris' and Balian's small wounds. The detective tried to argue that he was alright, but since Thranduil had seen his fourth son's latest adventure in the basin, the king of the Woodland Realm wasn't having any of it.

“Someone will fetch you later, and direct you to your rooms. Legolas, I suppose there is no way I can convince you to stay the night here? No? I guessed as much. Come with me to show the captain his room.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow at his father's willingness to do that himself, Will raised one at being called by his title when he hadn't talked of that to anyone but Legolas, both exchanged a suspicious raised eyebrow, and Thranduil raised both eyebrows as they did so. Brian, who was watching from the corner of his eye, because there was a terrible-looking healer hovering over him, raised an eyebrow too, wishing he could participate in this battle of the eyebrows instead of being threatened by an elven healer.

Will put back the cloak, with the hood to hide his face.

Leaving Brian to suffer at the hands of one who should normally tend to his wounds, as well as Paris and Balian, Will, Legolas and Thranduil walked out of the Rooms of Healing. It was only after five minutes of walking that Legolas thought it may be the moment to point out the obvious, since his father seemed to be oblivious to it.

“Hum, _ada_ , this is not the right direction to the guest rooms.”

The Elvenking was walking before his two sons, so they could only see his back.

“We're not going to the guest rooms.”

After that, Thranduil said nothing else.

They walked through the giant cave of the throne, and went beyond it, to the royal quarters. Then, they started going down, and Legolas' heart clenched at the thought that his father could be leading them to one place only.

Dread had invaded his heart when he saw those damned doors that he had never been allowed to pass, and the two guards that stood at the entrance of the cave, but who didn't know either what was inside. The scoldings came back to the Elvenprince's mind, as well as his father's despair each time he had spied him leaving the cave.

His distress must have shown, because William tensed next to him.

For the first time in nineteen centuries, Thranduil dismissed the guards.

Then he turned to his sons.

“Both of you, I think you would like to know why you look so similar, and what is the link between you and the three others that the orcs used to get the captain.”

He looked grimly at the doors that were still closed.

“Here lies the answer.”

And he pushed the doors open.

The cave beyond them was dark, but they walked in nonetheless. The Elvenking closed the doors back, and numerous luminous orbs lit up to illuminate the underground room.

There was a long silence, as Will and Legolas looked at the four lifeless elves lying on four beds of stone.

Finally Will walked to the stone bed that was the farthest to the right.

He passed his fingers in the messy dark hair without a word. When his hand encountered a pointed hear, he pushed aside the hair for it to be visible. Then he looked up at Thranduil, his face unreadable.

“That's me.”

Legolas almost choked on his surprise, and rushed to William's side. Without even looking, the man uncovered the scar on the chest of his elven body, as he did the same thing with his other hand for the body he was currently occupying.

He had put down his iron chest next to the one that had already been there before his coming in the room.

“It is.”

Legolas looked back at his father still as lost as before.

Thranduil's voice was shattering, as he let himself fall onto the seat next to the basin.

“These elves, Legolas, are your brothers. Firlach, you, Inasthol, Raudamon and Hirban were all born the same day, but you were the only one to open your eyes. Galadriel gifted me a few drops of the water in her Mirror, and by mixing it with some of our blood, I have been able to see the other lives that my sons have lived so far, in distant futures. I don't know why this happened, nor how, but it happened, and it caused you mother to fade away from this world.”

Both William and Legolas were as still as stone as they listened to the tale of their birth.

Thranduil stood up, and went to Brian's body.

“Raudamon was born from a mortal lookalike of your mother, as Brian Epkeen.”

He moved on to Paris', and after that Balian's.

“Firlach opened his eyes as Paris of Troy, in the arms of another lookalike of Aeweryn. Hirban was born from a woman who looked like my wife, and who gave him the name Balian, while his title came from his other father, Godefroy lord of Ibelin.”

Finally he joined his sons next to the two “Will”.

“And you, Inasthol, your mother, a woman who looked tremendously like your other mother, your mother gave you the first name William, while your father gave you his surname, Turner. Strangely enough, it happens that your two first names are somewhat synonymous, as it is for your three other brothers.”

Thranduil turned around to look at the basin, or maybe not to look at his sons.

“I have not witnessed your entire lives, but I have seen enough to know a bit about you. I know what happened to your heart, for example, and if you open that chest next to your original body, you will find exactly what you expect to find.”

The right corner of the captain's mouth twitched a bit. He looked down at both chests. He had the key to one in his pocket, and the Elvenking handed him the other's. Will opened the iron chests at the same time.

He had to refrain himself from throwing up, as always, when his eyes fell on two hearts that had been cut out of his bodies, and that were beating relentlessly and precisely at the same time.

“What happens to this body of yours, happens to the other. If you take a look at Brian's elven body, you might see some remain of the blood from yesterday, when that orc injured him.”

Will closed the chests and handed both keys to the Elvenking.

“You saw all that mattered?”

Thranduil nodded, still unable to look at either of his sons.

Will walked around the bed of stone, and forced the king of the Woodland Realm to look him in the eyes. What he saw must have satisfied him, for he was the one to broke the contact.

“Then you will keep these keys.”

“I will.”

Legolas joined his father and brother, still deeply perturbed, and looked around, at the original bodies of his brothers.

“Why are you telling only me and William, _ada_?”

“You are used to magic; you, Legolas, because you've always lived as an elf, and you, Inasthol, because you have been surrounded by curses and sea monsters since you were ten. Balian has almost lost his faith in Ilúvatar after the death of his newborn son and the suicide of his wife. Paris just lost a considerable amount of relatives, amongst whom his mortal father, and he is also the most fragile of you all since the War of Troy. And Brian would have hit his father unconscious with a frying pan if he could have done so without getting in trouble more than once, for the man was worse than I am as a father.”

Thranduil saw the look on Legolas' face, and winced.

“Don't think I wasn't aware that I was a terrible father. I simply couldn't help it. Each time I looked at you, I thought of the four unconscious children that remained in this room. And even once I started seeing their lives in this basin, I knew, or rather, I believed, that I would never be able to meet them, and you wouldn't either. It is not that I found you lacking, or unworthy, Legolas, it was simply that behind your back stood four shadows of what should have been, and I was the only one who knew of it.”

The prince felt as if the weight in his chest was dissolving, though not entirely. Finally knowing why his father had looked at him like this all those centuries helped, knowing that it wasn't because of a flaw of his helped too, but it didn't change the facts, nor did it change the past. He was still hurt. Legolas wouldn't try to fool himself into thinking it wasn't true.

But maybe now the wound would be able to scar.

William watched the expressions on his brother's face flitter. He looked at the comatose elves that had taken away the Elvenking's attention. And he felt guilty, because he was one of those, even if he wasn't to blame for his own predicament.

They left the cave, and Thranduil called back the guards to stand by the door. He didn't want anyone to wander in there out of curiosity, and see...

Before they reached the guest rooms, the king of the Woodland Realm turned to his third son.

“Please tell the others that you are all to have dinner with me. Even if I can't tell them the truth, I'd like to spend at least a bit of time with my sons, and we have to think up an explanation for your... resemblance. One that, preferably, is not the truth.”

There he left them.

Legolas guided William to a room that he knew to be innocupied. On the way, they met Brian, who looked at them suspiciously, as if he knew they hadn't been simply wandering about while the healer was complaining about the state he had gotten himself into. If one of the others were to discover the truth about them being brothers by themselves, it would surely be Brian, Legolas mused.

Then Will seeked out Balian and Paris, knowing well he was the only one present who could address them and be understood. As he had done with Brian, he told them about the dinner.

Finally Legolas went back to his own quarters. He needed to think.

As did William.

 

 

**Royal private dining room**

 

Brian was the first to get to the dining room, showed around by an elleth who occasionally glanced at him in wonder, and perhaps in suspicion too. It wasn't his fault that he had to keep the hood up!

The elleth left him alone in the private dining room, closing the doors behind her. Even so, he chose to keep his cloak on, for other elves were bound to enter the room while guiding the others. Even if the king's behavior was a bit suspicious, as were the actions of his son and of Turner, the detective knew it was for the better that until they agreed upon a backstory, they kept the number of people knowing about the Legolas Thranduilion human clones to a minimum.

Brian snorted in derision. Listen to him, one hand short of imagining fake allibis!

What was he now? A criminal, or a police officer?

Well... He couldn't really be a police officer in a place were the closest thing to a police organisation were the guards within the army.

Still, Brian Epkeen wasn't good at many things. He was intelligent, but lacked creativity. He was physically suited, but he lacked determination. Being a researcher or becoming an athlete wasn't for him. He could see through people, but had no patience. He would never be a good seller. He liked to protect, but couldn't bear to be ordered around without explanation. The army was not for him.

So in the end, he had become a detective. He liked his work, there was no questioning it. But he could hardly say he liked what he saw while doing it.

Sometimes he felt that if he could fall asleep and keep sleeping for all eternity, it would be for the best. Other times, he was flarring with energy, and a desire to beat all that was wrong in the world to a pulp. Unfortunately he could do neither.

And so he lived without thinking of the next day, because he knew that there was no escaping the horror of the world, and that he wasn't allowed to punch the ones in the wrong. There was nothing to expect from “tomorrow”.

It wasn't a glorious way to live, certainly, but it was all he had.

It was all he had had until now.

Now? It was different. He wasn't “home” anymore, and yet he kind of felt “at home” in this strange time, where God was not only believed in, but known to be real, when magic and immortality were a truth of the world. There was something about this time that agreed with him. He didn't know what yet, but he wasn't going to turn down this opportunity to live.

Even if that meant that he was going to encounter more of those monsters, and maybe even suffer by their hands.

Brian's upper lip twitched.

Maybe that was what he needed, a clear fight between good and evil. Oh, sure, there would always be grey people, that lived next to the border between the two sides, or that even walked from one side to the other frequently.

But there would also always be a true “good” and a true “evil”. Even if the forest surrounding these landmarks were to change slightly, the landmarks would keep being so.

It came to his mind that in the end, his world was only the future of this one. So maybe the landmarks were still there, in his time, but the people weren't able to see and recognize them for what they were anymore. “God” had become too abstract, and “the Devil” had become nothing more than weaknesses of the mind, in his people's opinion. He wasn't blaming them; he had thought just the same.

It was easy to understand, really. There were no more divine interventions in his time, and if that made the people free to take their fate into their own hands, that also meant the people had forgotten, not who guided their fate, but who had given them the possibility to have a fate. The reason of their existence had been forgotten.

Brian couldn't say if it was a good or a bad thing, and truthfully, he cared not. Not everyone needed the same beliefs, or lack thereof, to feel right as they were.

He felt good in this Third Age, and that was all that really mattered.

He would get himself a blade, and go orc-hunting. His life was worth nothing if he didn't do something useful, and beating the bad guys up was one of the rare things he could do well.

His thinking stopped abruptly, when, wandering in the dining room, his eyes stopped on a long velvet curtain that in fact hid something else.

The detective wasn't exactly a curious man. For the sake of investigation, he had learned to listen and observe, but he could easily refrain from going and taking a look when it wasn't necessary to... or when it was dangerous to. How many people got into trouble, not because they watched, but because they couldn't help but go see what was behind a door, without even considering their current situation? Too many for his liking, and he surely didn't intend to join their number.

But this time, Brian thought the situation warranted some transgressions. He had been thrown in a very distant past, after all, and he had absolutely no idea how to distinguish friends from foes.

Alright, some foes were quite obvious. The I-will-torture-you,-skin-you,-and-eat-you people such as orcs were easy to class. They were also easy to recognize: as Legolas had said, if it looks evil, it usually is. This was even true in his time. Sometimes, people were ugly, but they didn't seem particularly menacing, because they were in fact good people. But when someone came to you with a baseball bat and an odd look on their face, it was safe to assume that you'd better just run away.

But the elves?

They surely didn't look evil. They looked more angelic than demoniac. They had been courteous and helpful to him, so far. But wasn't Lucifer the most handsome of the archangels? Despite his appearance, he had become Satan, the Fallen Angel. Bluebeard was seemingly a proper and perfect noble, but he killed his wives and kept the bodies. And after all, it wasn't as if the elves were of the same species as humans. It wasn't because their appareances were in the whole similar, two legs, two arms, one head, that they weren't naturally different. Men and pigs shared quite a lot of DNA signature, and that didn't stop them from eating each other.

And it was quite obvious, to him, at least, that the Elvenking was hiding something from them mere mortals.

Why had he taken his son and Turner aside, when they had left the Rooms of Healing? Where had they gone, and what had been said? What was it, that hadn't been told to Balian, Paris, and himself?

The suspects in an investigation usually didn't play fair either, and that didn't mean the detective could afford to be rash for all that. But here, it was his safety that was first concerned. Even back on the job, when his health was threatened, it was a side-effect. A fly that had been caught in a storm, but who wasn't in the eye of the storm, unlike the target, who was the primary objective of the criminal.

No, here, if he were to die, it wouldn't be as a side-effect. If the elves weren't truthworthy, he would be the target. It wasn't only about solving a crime that had happened to someone else, it was about preventing his own murder.

This time, Brian deemed that he ought to take a look behind that curtain.

Just in case there was a secret passage there, which would lead him to a secret room where bodies were hung. Or in case someone had tagged “The Elvenking is a murderous bastard. Run away! Quick! Oh no, it's too la...” on the wall with their blood.

No, it wasn't sheer curiosity.

If anything, he'd accept to call it a despairing need to prove his sarcastic personality.

Brian pulled up the curtain.

No sooner his eyes had taken in what was behind that his hand let go of that same curtain, that fell back into place.

The detective stood there, before the drawn curtain, for a good minute, shock written all over his face. Luckily for him, no one came in before he could compose himself.

Although he had thought it a better idea to keep standing as long as the Elvenking would be absent, he went for a chair and sat down. He'd stand when the king would enter, but for now, he had to sit.

This painting behind the curtain...

Brian smiled an odd smile of disbelief.

The Elvenking had been easily recognizable. It wasn't him the problem. Legolas wasn't either, for the elf wasn't the one standing next to his father.

A short laugh escaped Brian's throat.

That elf next to the king...

It was his mother.

 

 

**Balian's room**

 

The blacksmith sat up on his bed. He had spent most of the afternoon sleeping, and an elf was now pounding at the door. Drapping himself quickly in his cloak, Balian went to open the door.

The ellon looked surprised when he saw the cloaked figure, but he had been warned that it would be the case. Oddly enough, when he had asked if it was true that the guests had been gravely disfigured by the orcs that had kept them prisoners, he hadn't gotten a response. Maybe it was to preserve the men's privacy. Or maybe these men were important figures, for they were to dine with the Elvenking. After all, Orcs didn't usually keep prisoners.

Still, it was a strange sight in the Halls of Thranduil.

“I have been told to guide you to the royal private dining room.”

The man nodded, and whispered a thank you that, even to an elf as unaccustomed to the Common Speech as himself, sounded odd. The man surely came from afar, for the ellon had never heard such an accent.

Then, as if to accertain his impression, the man spoke in a tongue he had never heard.

“ _Attendez un moment, s'il vous plait.”_

The door closed, and the elf wondered what it could have meant. It had sounded a bit like a request, that he was sure of, but this language... It was odd.

It was a bit as if there was no accentuation. All the sounds had been strangely equal, in length as well as in tone. It wasn't gruff like Khuzdul, sharp like Westron, melodic like Sindarin, strong like Rohirric, or any of the other languages he had heard. That didn't make it plain either. Spoken by that man at least, it was soft, and somewhat careful.

As for Balian, he quickly got himself in order, checking his hair wasn't a complete mess and straigthening his clothes, before putting the cloak on once again. He didn't want to look like nothing at all when called to a dinner with a king that had been so good as to offer them a place to stay in his own castle.

The thought reminded him of the King of Jerusalem and his fair ruling. Nostalgia almost overtook him, but he knew there was nothing that could have healed his king. He was gone, and so was the peaceful land he had ruled.

May this one prosper for long.

He hadn't seen much of the elves, but they seemed to be joyful folks, when nothing was there to ask for them to be serious. They could be quietly dangerous too. Him, he was only able to be quietly dangerous. Being cheerful, he had never known how to do that.

He didn't want those who could to lose their happiness.

 

 

**Royal private dining room**

 

Paris walked in the dining room to find that Legolas, Brian and Balian were already there. He felt a bit reassured to be again in the company of one person who could somewhat speak his language, thought he felt even better when William Turner finally joined them.

The Elvenking had yet to come, so the trojan prince took a look around the room.

For all it was a private room, it wasn't less of a royal one.

It was spacious, with a light well in the middle of the ceiling that was as large as the round table beneath it. The evening light dimly illuminated the place, and several layers of glass windows cut the room from the outside for reasons of safety, but even so Paris was certain they would be able to see the stars once the night would be here. Several light orbs were also placed in the four corners of the room, as well as in the middle, for the table was in fact a hollow circle.

The young man had had to ascend many stairs before reaching the dining room. Apparently the royal quarters where higher in the hill that contained the Halls, and so closer to the ground. As the light coming down the light well wasn't so strong at this hour of the evening, Paris could make out the shape of trees above them. The upper part of the well was also covered in vines, on which white flowers could be seen, even if they were well into Autumn.

The two sidewalls of the room had been covered with carved wood panels on which the forest life was represented. The double doors Paris had passed to enter used most of the wall that was behind him, and a dark curtain hid the remaining wall.

Soon after William Turner arrived, the Elvenking made his entrance, followed by half a dozen elves who bore the dishes. Those left once their task had been carried out.

Brian rose from his seat, but Thranduil noticed he looked troubled, and a tad suspicious too. It was a rare thing, for the detective to show his discomfort. William and Paris, who had been standing iddly, straightened their posture, one in discomfort at what he knew, the other one out of habit. Balian failed to react, though the king of the Woodland Realm suspected it was more like he had reined in his reactions so well that none was left to be seen. Legolas, finally, looked at his brothers with contained curiosity, surely searching for similarities of personality as well as of features.

The four men removed their cloaks, and once again the similarities of their faces struck.

Legolas and William exchanged a look, that didn't go unnoticed by Brian.

Thranduil offered them to take a seat, accompanying his offer with a similar gesture for the two who couldn't understand him.

The Elvenking sat before the drawn curtain, while Legolas took the seat at his left with reluctance, willing to be closer to his newfound brothers. William went pragmatically to the seat right opposite to his father, so that Balian and Paris could seat next to him. It would be easier to translate. Brian sat next to Paris, as he could at least understand and exchange a bit with the Trojan.

That left a few seats between elves and mortals, for a king's private dining room could be nothing less than able to host a dozen people, and an elf's family was usually large, since the ancestors died only when felled.

As they started eating, Thranduil refrained from looking too eagerly at his assembled children, but did so that it wouldn't become too awkward. Maybe the other children found it strange to eat with a king and yet not with so much formality, but Balian was used to Baudouin IV's good natured meals.

When they finished the dessert, they switched to more serious matters, the most important of which being, obviously, that they couldn't live in the Halls and continue wearing their cloaks on all occasions.

That being said, they still needed an excuse to explain their resemblance.

After a time, Legolas came up with an idea that seemed valid to his father. The others would agree, since they weren't used to the ways of the elves, and believed the two when they said it would have been a plausible explanation, if it wasn't the truth.

“Father, it dates to a while back, so it is not impossible that one of our ancestors, from even before the different clans parted, married a mortal at some point of history. If we go back long enough, we all are of the quendi, and so I am sure we must have some ties with those of the avari. They were the first ones to meet mortals, and it was so long ago, Brian, Paris, William and Balian could be passed off their as descendants.”

Thranduil frowned, aware that it was possible that, in fact, several men in the world beside the Dúnedain had elven blood so thin that it had simply no effect on their lifespan.

“It is still a bit far fetched to explain why they look exactly like you.”

There, Brian interrupted.

“Don't worry about that, King Thranduil. I, for the matter, have seen many unrelated by blood lookalikes. And those are only amongst the famous people of my time. If we were to look closely, there are many more people who look alike in the world.”

Will took a break from his double translating task to snort silently. He remembered having read a magazine once, with pictures of two celebrities that looked so much alike sometimes the spectators got their identities wrong when watching their movies. He had cast the magazine aside as fast as he could, for both looked, not only alike, but exactly like Elizabeth.

Brian continued.

“Most of the time, these people live in completely different areas, and so they never meet. It could work with us, as Paris is more tan than any of us, and my clothing is certainly... exotic enough, I should say. William's sword is different from every kind of weapons you have here. Only Balian could pass for a native of the nearest human settlement, I believe, but he doesn't even speak English, sorry, Westron. We are definitely from stranger lands.”

“I guess we could take this explanation. I certainly don't want just any people to know you have been purposely summoned with dark magic by the orcs, they could think you a menace or something. But that still doesn't explain how you all ended up as prisoners with my son.”

“As to that, _ada_ , maybe we could say that they have been captured because they looked like me, and the orcs, stupid as they are, thought we had some kind of connection. I am the Elvenprince of Mirkwood, after all. It wouldn't do them bad if they got rid of me.”

Thranduil poundered the explanation for a time, and finally decided this was what made the most sense.

The dinner ended with all of them speaking of the arrival of the other people who had been dragged in the summoning. Balian hadn't failed to notice he had been given a room for two, as had William, and so asked if he was meant to share with Sibylla. Thranduil dismissed the question easily; after all, they were a married couple. After that, Paris longed for the company of Helen. As for Brian, his eyes followed the Elvenking with a resolve that he hadn't felt for years.

When elves came to take back the dishes, none of the brothers bothered to put the cloaks back on. Soon, the rumors would start in the Halls, and it wouldn't take more than a few hours to get out and to the town. Thranduil excused himself, leaving the five brothers between themselves, for he had to handle the situation, now that they had agreed on an official explanation.

Slowly, all left the dining room, to go back to their own. All, but Brian, who stayed seated, looking at nothing in particular.

Legolas, worried about this new and yet fully grown brother of his, remained too, and started speaking with him. The elf soon learned to his great shock that he was not only a brother, but an uncle as well. It made him wonder if any of the others had had children too. Paris seemed a bit young for that, but Balian and William were married... Balian had lost his child, though.

The custom called “divorce” greatly unsettled him too. Brian had to explain to him that sometimes, as mortals had so short a life, they made hasty decisions, and that not all loves were fated to remain true. Elves didn't know that problem, so Legolas had difficulties understanding the idea.

Still, he noticed that Brian looked upset with himself, when it came to his own divorce. Maybe his match had been right, but had not lasted anough to become unbreakable? After all, that the elves could understand. The Elvenprince himself had lived it with Tauriel.

But what had caused the separation, the detective did not say.

They spoke of what they did with their lives, of what was the profession of detective, and how because he was a prince, it didn't mean that Legolas was destined to be a king one day.

“Since we are immortal, unless he is killed or choose to leave, my father will stay the Elvenking. It allows me a greater liberty than to mortals princes, even if it does not change the fact that he is reluctant to let me go into danger. He is still my father, after all.”

One hour later, they were interrupted by Thranduil, who had come back from his meeting with his Seneschal, and had heard their voices as he walked to his own room.

If it had been any of the brothers besides Brian, Thranduil would have simply been happy to see his two sons getting to know each other. Now, the fact that it was Brian didn't make him any less happy, but it made him suspicious as well.

Brian was a detective, after all, and he had stared at him the whole evening.

“Legolas, you should not stay up too late. With all the blood you've lost yesterday, you should go to bed earlier than usual.”

The Elvenprince stared dubiously at his father, but relented. Even if he knew this was not Thranduil's only reason to want him to have some rest, there was no reason for him to argue.

The king of the Woodland Realm watched in silence his second son leave the dining room before turning to his fourth son.

“Is there something you wish to say?”

Thranduil was being cautious when he spoke with his sons. He couldn't bring himself to call then by their surnames or with any sort of honorifics, but he couldn't either call they by their first names. He wasn't supposed to know them, so “Brian” was plainly impossible and “Raudamon” would bring too many questions.

Brian was standing before the velvet curtain.

This was not good, the Elvenking thought, knowing too well what was going to happen next.

“I don't know, King Thranduil. Is there a reason for me to complain?”

And as he said so, the man drew the curtain to the left, revealing the painting.

The Elvenking felt his heart beat faster. This was the painting that had been done for his and Aeweryn's wedding. This was, in fact, the only painting he had of his wife.

Brian, still not looking at Thranduil, asked, as if it was only a small topic:

“Why do you keep this portrait hidden, King Thranduil?”

He hadn't asked about his mother. How could he, anyway? His mother had been a mortal of the twentieth century of the Seventh Age. If Thranduil ignored all about her, maybe he'd better not speak of it. After all, he himself looked like the king's son, and no one knew why. On the other hand, if the Elvenking knew about her resemblance to his wife, and had said nothing, it wasn't likely that he would speak now.

But that was only Brian's belief. He thought so, because he didn't know the real reason behind Thranduil's silence. And if he had known, he wouldn't have had to ask anyway.

Maybe it was for the better, that he hadn't asked. Brian, at least, thought so.

Maybe it was for the worse, because the truth was that Thranduil would have told him, if he had been cornered so.

But Brian wouldn't ask the question that mattered, and so the secret would remain one for a bit longer.

As for knowing what a bit longer represented, it is interesting to wonder about the point of view: is it a mortal's one, or an elven one?

“Because Aeweryn died after having given birth to Legolas. I do not wish to have him reminded of that every time he is to eat here. And I must admit that seeing her smile is still painful for me too.”

Thranduil moved to a wooden cabinet, and retrieved from it the bottle of Dorwinion wine that had been taken to the table, but that he had judged too heady for his mortal children. When it came to Brian, though, he wasn't sure this judgment was valid. After all, the man had a very large experience with alcohol, and he knew it.

Serving two glasses, he looked back at his son.

Brian's relationship with his mortal father was far from being good. If lately, the detective had come to resent his father a bit less, there was little chance he would ever be at peace with the memory of the deceased man. There were some things that couldn't be forgotten.

“Hide it again, please. And after that, come speak with me.”

Brian drew the curtain back, and came to seat on the chair right to the Elvenking's with a mildly dubious look on his face. He accepted the drink, and was surprised at how strong the wine was. He asked about it, and one thing leading to another, he soon found himself listening to a lesson on the geography of Arda while enjoying a second, and after that, a third glass.

By then, Brian was quite inebriated, and he started talking about himself.

Thranduil wasn't really proud of himself, to get his own son drunk so that the man would open up. But Brian was secretive, and leery. He wouldn't have been frank with him, not unless the Elvenking told him the truth too. And if Thranduil told him that he was his father... It was highly probable that Raudamon would even more not wish to talk to him.

After a while, Thranduil managed to turn the conversation to Ruby and their forgotten marriage. He might have seen much, but he hadn't seen all. Moreover, Brian had always been a silent one.

“I don't know what I could have done. I know, and I knew back then too, that I shouldn't have gone and looked elsewhere. I knew she wouldn't like it, and I knew I shouldn't have anyway. But I still did it, even though I loved her, even though I still love her, because I'm completely broken. And so, I break everything around me. All my friends are dead. My wife is not my wife anymore, even if I'd do anything to save her life. My son despises me.”

On that, the detective finished lamely:

“I have absolutely no reason to keep living, and still, I linger around, unwilling to die, unwilling to live, and my sole presence breaks everything around me.”

Brian looked up at the Elvenking next to him, and for some winely reason, he found that the look on the elf's face was very fatherly, as anxious as his father had been once or twice, when he had been terribly sick. But Thranduil's face didn't awake any of the other memories, the ones that had made him see his father differently, oh, so differently, that his teenage self had been repulsed. The memories that made him feel like a monster when he remembered his father's good sides, because the good couldn't always balance out the bad. The speeches, and that time. That time more than the speeches. Some people are only idiots who believe in bullshit and do bad things from time to time. His father had gone far beyond that.

The Elvenking stared for a time at his own glass. Eventually, he drank it all.

“You are not the only one who is broken, and as a result breaks everyone around them. After my wife's death, I couldn't bring myself to look at Legolas for two hundreds years. And even until not long ago, I coudn't look at him without showing some of my despair. I believe he thought I despised him, all that time.”

Thranduil gave out a forced laugh.

“But I believe I can be mended. In fact, it has already begun. Maybe you too, you can be mended.”

Brian smiled ruefully.

“I cannot be mended. I'm irremediably broken. After what my father did...”

And he gulped down the wine that was yet in his glass. Then he tried to stand up and leave, but he staggered. The detective held on the edge of the table, unable to walk.

Thranduil glanced at the bottle of Dorwinion, and was surprised to find it almost empty. If he had noticed how much they had been drinking, he'd have stopped Raudamon long before. Dorwinion wine was much stronger than an average wine. For the man to even be conscious...

The Elvenking stood up to help his son to get to his room. He didn't care about what the elves they would meet on the way would think.

“Come, I'll walk you back.”

As he passed the man's arm behing his neck, Brian looked up at him.

“But you already know what he did, don't you?”

Before Thranduil could say anything, too shocked, the detective fell asleep. The elf guided him back to his room and laid him on the bed.

“ _L_ _á_ _, iôn-nin_. I know.”

 


	5. In a chest of secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me more time than usual to finish this chapter. I apologize for that. I just find it harder to write about stuff like that.
> 
> I also started a twitter account, for news about my fanfics ( updates, hints as I write, those kind of things. )  
> If you're interested:  
> https://twitter.com/EKernor

**TA 3017, November**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – Royal quarters**

 

The Elvenking was up before anyone else in the Halls this morning, though it could be argued that, since he hadn't actually managed to fall asleep of the entire night, he hadn't either woken up before anyone. Still, he had gone to bed, not found any rest, and gotten up again. So, he technically was up before anyone else.

Thranduil had not managed to sleep that night, and he had no doubt as to why.

His sons were here. The five of them. They were all here.

They were here, alive, with him. With their father. And with their brothers.

But he couldn't tell them. Legolas and William had taken it well enough, but Thranduil just knew the other three wouln't, if he told them. Brian especially wouldn't accept it.

And still, the day before, Brian had told him enough for the Elvenking to guess the man had doubts. It had been in a drunken stupor, and maybe the detective hadn't noticed, when in his normal state, but Brian was aware, somehow, that Thranduil knew more about him than he let on.

And so, Thranduil couln't sleep.

He searched for something, to occupy his time, but soon forget all about it. He went in and out of bed more than ten times. He walked around his room, and peace failed to come to him. He was restless.

The elf eventually sighed, and made his way out of of his quarters. He didn't know what he was going to do, but staying in there obviously did no good.

 

 

**Will's room**

 

The captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ laid on his bed, sheets still done, with his eyes opened. Even if he didn't need the rest, if he closed his eyes and drifted off a bit too much, he'd end up falling asleep, and then it'd begin once again. He didn't want the nightmares. He had seen too many of those, and it was always the same thing.

She'd always be there, sitting on a chair, and she would look up and smile at him as he'd enter the small wooden house. Everything would be fine, at that point. She'd have a hand on her round stomach, and she would move for him to come closer, and feel the life that was growing in her. Of course, since his dream self didn't know what would happen, he would walk to her, and put his hand next to hers.

That was when it always turned bad.

Will had had enough nightmares in the last centuries. He didn't want another one. There where always times when he would fail to stay awake, because an eternity was a long time, and his duties as a ferryman for the dead souls didn't use up all his time. At some point, his attention would drift away, and if it lasted long enough, he would fall asleep.

The first times, he had screamed himself awake.

It still happened, from time to time, though for the last two hundred years he had somehow managed to just trash in his sleep without actually screaming.

He'd rather not disturb the Halls with his nightmares, and he wasn't feeling like having one of them anyway. Not that he ever felt like it.

Hence why he couldn't fall asleep.

Will didn't know what would happen when Elizabeth and the others would arrive. He was meant to share this room with her, but he wouldn't be able to keep the act for long. After a time, she was meant to notice he never fell asleep before her, and was always awake before she did. He wasn't sure he wouldn't actually fall asleep at some point, and wake her with his trashing. He couldn't just never come to sleep either.

He really didn't know what to do about that.

As he mused so in the dead of the night, William frowned.

He was almost certain he had heard something in the corridor.

Now, he had noticed elves didn't make much noise when they walked, unless they couldn't but step on a twig or dried leaves. In the Halls, he hadn't been able to tell when one was coming at all, least they were speaking at the same time. He had seen Balian going to sleep exhausted, and Paris' room was too far away for him to hear anything unless the young prince was punching the walls for some reason, which would make much more noise than this. As for Brian, the detective had been completely drunk when someone had taken him back to his room, a few hours prior. Will didn't believe this particular brother of his would be up before at least noon.

The captain stretched, and went to open the door. His sword was still beside his bed, but he cared not. First of all, he didn't believe anyone would attack the Elvenking's guests in the castle, and second, it wasn't as if someone could actually kill him.

He needn't have worried, for the sight that greeted him in the corridor was far from that of a fearsome attacker.

Not that he had worried, of course. The worst that could have happened, if someone had come to kill him or any of his newfound brothers, was that someone would have have to clean the blood afterwards. Be it the attacker' of his, it mattered not. He wasn't going to die.

He had been beheaded, once.

It hadn't been a pleasant experience.

Anyway, the point was, the person who was standing in the corridor was no threat at all.

It was his newfound father.

Alright, maybe he could be seen as an emotional threat.

The Elvenking had let himself fall against the wall that stood between the corridor and William's room in a way that was all but regal. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes red, Thranduil Oropherion didn't look like a composed elf king for once. His hair was slighty unruly, and Will could see the salted lines left by tears on one of his father's cheeks.

Thranduil was looking at him wide-eyed, as if caught in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness. On his account, it certainly was the case.

“You can come in, if you want to.”

Will almost bit his tongue as the words left his mouth. He had just invited a father he had never known but who knew a lot about him, and he had absolutely no idea about what they could speak about. It wasn't as if there was not enough to be said; it was more like there was too much to say.

For a moment he thought his father would refuse, but eventually the Elvenking stood straight again, and passed the door. Will closed it. They were now alone, estranged father and son.

Thranduil forced himself to look his son in the eyes.

“I hope I didn't wake you up.”

Will's eyes traveled wrily at the bed that hadn't been undone, even if the sheets were a bit shuffled. The Elvenking's eyes followed his son's, and the elf's voice was a bit wry when he spoke again. They sure sounded alike, at that time.

“Not that you were sleeping. Were you?”

“Of course not. I suppose you saw it too in that basin?”

“Obviously. Don't keep standing on my behalf, William. Sit down if you feel like it.”

The captain nodded, and went to his bed. The Elvenking took a seat on a chair, that he brought a bit nearer to his son, but not too much. None of them felt comfortable enough not to put a minimal distance between them.

There was a silence, that William used to look at his father with more attention than he had before. People had always told him he looked like his dad, and he guessed it was true in more than one way. If Bill Turner had been like some sort of other version of himself when he had been young, with not exactly the same features, but close enough, Will shared more emotional resemblances with his other father, his original father. Bill and Will had been almost alike, while Thranduil and Inasthol had exactly the same expression in grief. Apparently he looked more like his mother, be it the human or the elven one. Which meant that, in a way, Bill Turner had looked like his wife... This was getting too odd to continue thinking about it.

“You should try to sleep, you know.”

Will scoffed, forgetting for a time that it wasn't only a stranger who was talking to him, but also a king and his father.

“These nightmares are more likely to turn me insane than not to sleep for three thousand years. And it's not like I don't sleep occasionally.”

Thranduil arched an eyebrow at his son.

“Let me guess, they are about your wife dying, over and over, again and again, and you watching her grow old and wither away. I have seen your mother fade after your births, William. She didn't grow old, but she lost all her radiance and will to live, and it lasted two years. I have watched Aeweryn waste away for two whole years, Will. I know, maybe not the exact content of your dreams, but how they affected you. I still dream of her, from time to time.”

The immortal man didn't answer right away.

“So it doesn't go away?”

Thranduil's facial expression was more of a wince than anything else when he spoke back.

“Never. But it get less terrible. And for now, Elizabeth is here. Enjoy the time you are given with her again, as long as it lasts. You can worry about what will happen next later on.”

The Elvenking looked around the room, and back at his third son. William was looking at the ground, his forehead resting on his jointed hands.

“And you can't keep it from her. Aeweryn always knew when I lied to her. She certainly didn't fall for it, when I told her we had one son, even if her memories of giving birth to the five of you were fuzzy at best. She just knew there was something I wasn't telling her, and keeping it from her wasn't lessening her pain.”

Will looked back up at the elf with an unconvinced look on his face.

“You want me to tell Elizabeth that I'm actually dead, and we saw each other only six days before she died and after our wedding, more than six hundred years ago?”

“I don't want you to tell her anything. I want you to appreciate the little time you've been gifted together. I certainly haven't quite enjoyed the two years I had left with my wife. I think that to do so, you need to stay true to yourself.”

Thranduil's mouth twitched a bit, as he saw the doubt in his son's eyes.

“You didn't get the easiest personality amongst you five, I must say. I fear you are too much like me, in a way. Too passionate, perhaps. Just look at us: one terrible event and a few hundreds of years were enough to rob us of all our happiness. But I know, if you have a tendancy to keep what hurts you close to your heart and in a chest of secret, I know that you are willing to do anything for the happiness of the ones you love. Even if it means your own misery. That time, you were ready to give her up, when you thought she loved another one. Yet, it wasn't the case. Maybe you should try to think about it her way: she won't like that you kept something from her, for as I've already told you, Elizabeth will find out. Females always seem to find out everything, in the end, even if I have no idea how.”

William was obviously not convinced. There was no way he could even try to imagine a world where knowing about that would make Elizabeth happier than to be left in the dark. The Elvenking saw this, and sighed.

“Just remember, Will, that you will have to suffer her wrath when she'll find out.”

On these words, Thranduil decided it was time to leave his son alone. The young man needed time to think about what had been said. Though if Inasthol was truly as his father believed him to be, that is, mostly similar to the Elvenking in personality, the decision the youth would reach was clear enough. Words were rarely enough for Thranduil to change his mind on such matters as well.

Still, there was the issue of rest.

The elf stopped as he was closing the door, and looked back in the room.

“You should really try to sleep. You will find that elven places are usually good for the peace of mind of even the most damaged people.”

 

 

**The forest – Orodir's party**

 

As the day before, the elves and mortals woke up at dawn, and left quickly.

Cassandra's state wasn't getting better, but she still managed to walk without difficulty. The problem didn't lay with her body, after all. The problem was the terrible pressure her mind was enduring, as the great red eye swept over her without noticing her, but always closer to her, always nearer to see her secret and notice her.

As this happened, the others were starting to notice that something was wrong with her.

Odysseus, even if he didn't show it, was getting worried. Cassandra of Troy might have been an enemy overall during the war, even if she was a woman, even if she wasn't a warrior, but the war had ended... to him, at least. All he saw was a young woman who was about to break down. Instinctively so, he started to turn to look at the South-East, even if he wasn't sure why.

Each time he did this, a terrible and rightful anger rose in him. Strangely enough, it seemed to calm the trojan princess a bit every single time he felt so. Odysseus didn't question it. For now. It wasn't as if he was likely to get an answer yet.

The elves were getting a bit more tense as time passed. They were getting closer to the nearest village, and were likely to arrive there in the evening, but they had heard screams coming from the South during the night. Orcs' screams. The monsters wouldn't dare to come into Thranduil's realm unless they were numerous, but they sounded really angry. And numerous. It was more than likely that they wanted revenge on the Elvenprince for escaping their grasp, and possibly on any living being just for being alive.

Still, Orodir noticed that the older man in the group of mortals was sometimes looking back to the South, and when he did so, each time and without failure, the elf could feel something shifting in the balance of power. It was as unsettling as it could get, and Orodir certainly had no idea as to what it meant considering the man. All he could say was that Odysseus of Ithaca had a presence he had rarelly seen before.

Orodir surveyed once again the group he was leading to the Halls of Thranduil.

The women seemed to follow easily enough, Cassandra of Troy excepted. Elizabeth Swann was stubbornly tough, Sibylla of Jerusalem had snapped at an elf that she wasn't going to be exhausted by a few hours of walking after she had crossed half of a desert on feet, and Anamaria, the dark-skinned woman, simply walked in silence.

That left the injured man, James Norrington. His wound had worsened during the night, probably from infection, and he was raving slightly on his stretcher, when he wasn't sleeping. Orodir had actually no idea how the man was still alive with the wound he had been given. Surely it had been only thanks to the quick actions of Elizabeth Swann, when they had all ended up in that orcs lair. James Norrington had had a pole planted in his abdomen, for Eärendil's sake!

So far, the ravings had informed the elven captain that the man had more than probably been a military officer of high ranking, that he had done some errors of judgment, and that he was not really happy about the fact that Elizabeth Swann had chosen the blacksmith over him.

And Orodir wasn't even the one holding the back of the stretcher, where the man's head rested; he hadn't heard everything.

All in all, he mused, the mortals were pleasant enough to walk with. If they could all be like that, elves might not be so wary of strangers...

The princess Cassandra seemed like a nice girl, from the few words he had heard her say, who didn't like to be a burden. King Odysseus was calm, composed, reliable, and definitely mysteriously fascinating. The former queen Sibylla was a proud woman, but she didn't complain when things couldn't be avoided, and she did what had to be done; the trick was apparently to act proudly even when gathering wood or fetching water, just so that no one would even think of pointing out it wasn't something a queen, formerly so or not, ought to do. James Norrington seemed to be a bit too proud, but willing to do good, and that was what truly mattered, in the end. Anamaria seemed like a woman with a harsh past, but great determination, and she had taken upon herself to keep Norrington alive until they could find a healer. As for Elizabeth Swann, she had a fiery temper, and stood true to all that she defended.

Well, the elf thought, at least these people weren't likely to be much trouble. The question was, though, what were they possibly going to do once they'd have the time to think about it? They had just been cast into another time, well in the past, with nothing to tell them how they were supposed to get back, if it was even possible.

 

 

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace**

 

After having advised Inasthol to get some sleep, Thranduil ended up following his own advice. To his future surprise, he fell into slumber as soon as he lied down. He slept until nine o'clock this day.

When he woke up, the Elvenking wondered about what to do. For once he didn't have anything urgent to tend to, and he had his five sons under his... well, ceiling, since roof wasn't quite the right word.

Still not having found an answer, the elf ate his breakfast in a daze, his mind miles away from what his hands were doing. If he hadn't been a thousands years old elf, and so quite coordinated, it would have ended in a tragedy, with the raspberry jam playing the part of blood.

Later, Thranduil startled a few elves by walking aimlessly in the corridors of the Halls, and almost bumping into them. It happened several times, with the same elves. His subjects were starting to worry, but the Elvenking was oblivious to it all.

Finally, someone brought him out of his musings.

Thranduil blinked, finally noticing he had been pacing around his throne for the last ten minutes. However, it was not what was bothering him, so he ignored the fact.

The elf squinted at the form that was sitting two bridges away, one lewel below.

There was no questioning it: it was Firlach. The young Trojan was looking at the stream that ran through the Halls, a stream derivated from that very river that had the bad habit of erasing parts of people's memories. Even if the Halls almost nullified the effect of the enchanted water, it wouldn't do if Paris ended up touching the water. Thranduil winced. He should have warned his sons the night before, but as it was an obvious issue to everyone living in Mirkwood, he hadn't thought of it.

Thranduil approached discreetly his first son, who didn't turn back nor gave any indication he was aware of the elf's presence. Eventually, the Elvenking came to be close enough to see the young man's face.

His heart clenched at the look of utter guilt that had taken over the youth's face. Thranduil had an inkling as to what made him look like that, and he knew the man couldn't simply be left alone. Not after what had happened to him just before he had been pulled into this time. It wouldn't be a good idea, truly, to do so.

The elf debated whether or not he should really go and talk to his son when it would only bring more questions. The debate lasted for about three seconds, before the Elvenking moved to join Paris.

The young man looked up from the stream his eyes had been following in surprise. When he saw who his visitor was, he felt even more surprised, and quite a lot embarassed at having been seen brooding by a king. But the thought brought back memories of his father, and his attempt at a polite smile died on the spot.

“ _It's alright to blame yourself for what happened to your city, but you surely know that it should only help you not to make the same mistake in the future, and it shouldn't hinder you in living this future.”_

The young man nodded, but his eyes told another story.

Apparently he hadn't noticed how he could understand what the Elvenking had just said. As if the elf knew Greek, unlike about everybody in this time and place. Thranduil hoped it would stay that way. He couldn't very well explain to his son-who-ignored-he-was-his-son how he could speak a language that would not appear on Arda for several thousands of years.

“ _I brought death upon my city and my family for love. How am I supposed to continue living, as if it was nothing, now?”_

“ _You just do it. No one will be here to blame you for falling in love, though you could have acted upon it a bit more cleverly than you did.”_

By then, the Elvenking should have noticed how indeed, the Trojan wasn't questioning all that the elf knew at all. Not only about speaking Greek, but also about knowing, or at least sounding like he knew, about what had exactly happened during the war. There was simply no way the young man wasn't having doubts, by now.

But apparently, Paris wasn't reacting to the hints that something was amiss. Maybe he was too taken with his problem to notice the slip.

Or maybe, seeing how Thranduil himself wasn't noticing how carelessly he spoke, maybe there was something wrong with the two of them.

Father and son spoke silently, sitting by the stream, hidden from direct view by the bridge that passed above them. If Paris cried that morning, his father never told anyone. Maybe the young man didn't. Or maybe he did. Even the two concerned people weren't sure either, afterwards. What Paris would remember of that discussion, was that making mistakes was natural, and even if his mistakes had been worse than most, he didn't have to forsake his happiness over it. What would truly be shameful, however, would be not to learn from those mistakes, and make them over, and over again. What would truly be shameful would be for him not to feel remorse over what he had done.

Feeling awful about it meant he had a right not to dwell on it for the rest of his life.

Of this conversation, so, Thranduil and Paris would only remember what mattered.

They would forget, on the other hand, all the small details, as they hadn't noticed how strange it was, that the Elvenking would know things he couldn't possibly know, and that the trojan prince would fail to notice these things.

By eleven o'clock, they were both asleep, just there, where they had been sitting.

Clear steam was rising from the mischievious stream at their feet.

 

 

**Royal quarters**

 

It was around noon when the Seneschal came to Legolas, worry etched on his face. The Elvenprince looked the elf up and down, as if trying to establish if there had been Dorwinion vine involved the night before. When he found not trace of a possible hangover, the prince frowned.

“ _I think Adar had a rough night, what with the last events. Maybe he fell asleep somewhere. I'll search for him, don't worry.”_

The Seneschal accepted the help gratefully, completely at a lost as to what to do with the orders he had been given last night, without his king to explain said orders with a bit more precision. It could have helped if said orders hadn't been to, in lack of better words, “get everything prepared for six more mortals guests by tomorrow night”. This was utterly vague. What was he supposed to do with these orders? The Elvenking had looked very bothered, behind his calm exterior that the Seneschal knew too well, the night before, so he had let it at that. But now, he needed more precise orders. Who were those guests? What were their standings? Were there married couples? Was he supposed to give them rooms with the four others? Speaking of which, who were those men who looked just like a mix between the Elvenprince and the late Elvenqueen? Or, in other words, like children of the royal couple of Greenwood the Great? Mortals, though.

Legolas left the anxious Seneschal to his anxiety. He had an inkling that the arrival of his mortal brothers was already the gossiping topic of the Halls, and maybe of the city. It was more than probable that the Seneschal had been bothered with questions about the king's guests for so long he was starting to get a bit paranoid about the whole thing.

The Elvenprince had never seen such a paranoid elf.

The prince went directily to the guest rooms, since it was a given the royal quarters had already been searched in and out. He wasn't sure that his father would be spying on his other sons, and he wasn't even sure his brothers had kept to the quarters reserved for guests, though they had been asked not to leave the Halls, at least as long as they were waiting for their companions. But it was worth a shot, to take a look.

Legolas would frankly not blame his father if the Elvenking had been spying on his estranged sons all morning. He himself could barely refrain from spying on his brothers, eager as he was to get to know them, at least a little.

On the way, he met with William and Balian, who were apparently discussing smithery, from what the immortal man told him.

Will informed him that he had spoken with the king early in the morning, or, in fact, more like late in the night, but he hadn't seen him after that. Legolas was happy to hear that, to the captain's great surprise, he had almost managed to pass the night without one nightmare, and even then it hadn't been as violent as usual. It seemed their father had somehow convinced the man to try upon the basis that places were elves dwelled were good for the peace of mind.

Legolas indicated the two blacksmiths where to find the forges, assuring them the smiths wouldn't mind their presence, and he went on his way.

As he found out that Thranduil was indeed not in here, Brian's door opened quite violently.

The Elvenprince stood at a respectable distance as the man walked out, holding his head, his eyes unfocused.

“Dorwinion wine is not good, I get it. Don't ever again drink half a bottle of Dorwinion, Brian, it is worse than Vodka, and it's even more dangerous, because it does actually taste wonderful. Now, where are the bathrooms...”

Brian mumbled under his breath, as the corridor around him swayed.

“The bathrooms are to the left.”

The detective looked up to see the Elvenprince a few meters away, almost amused with his predicament. He grumbed something incomprehensible, straightened his back, and took a moment to breath and clear his mind. Miraculously enough, he wasn't that affected by the wine. Of course, he had had practice. A lot of practice. So while his head was pounding like mad and the world didn't seem to be willing to oblige him by staying with the top up and the bottom down, and let's not talk about the twirling right and left were doing before his eyes, while he was clearly having a bad hangover case, Brian's mind was clear. Clearish. Clear enough.

It just hurt like mad.

The detective greeted the elf cordially enough, considering. He was going to get his head in a lot of cold water, and then he was going to drink a lot of water, and that was as far as his mind was calculating his following course of action.

But before they parted way, Legolas still searching for his father, Brian remembered his conversation from last night with the Elvenking, even if he didn't remember all of it.

“If you don't mind, could you tell me what ' _L_ _á_ _, iôn-nin_ ' means?”

The Elvenprince's brow furrowed, but he guessed it was something his father had said when they had all been in the Rooms of Healing. He couldn't have known about how Brian's evening had ended, and so he had no reason to be suspicious about the inquiry.

“'Yes, my son', nothing more.”

Brian's upper lip twitched, but the detective managed to smile casually... or as casually as his headache allowed him to.

“Oh, I see. Sorry to have bothered you. I'll be on my way... to take care of the drums that are playing in my head.”

Legolas stiffened at the statement, and he watched the man walk slowly to the bathrooms. There was no way the man could know, but to elves, drums usually meant orcs and goblins. After the misadventure they had all shared only two days before, speaking of this was not...

But he still had to find his father, and there were no orcs threatening his brother in this place.

Even if there had been, Legolas wasn't about to forget the formidable way the detective got rid of any monster that tried to kill him. He was quite sure that, even in the state Brian was currently in, if a goblin just jumped on him out of nowhere, the man would manage to separate its head from its body with only his hands.

Speaking of which, what had possibly lead his father to give half a bottle of Dorwinion wine to a mortal?

And back to the first topic, where was the Elvenking?

The Halls were an enormous place to search, and yet, Legolas was lucky. After only twenty other minutes of search, his eyes wandered as he crossed a bridge in the gigantic cave that held the throne of the kingdom, as well as all the gathering places used during winter and the council platform.

On the bank of the stream that passed through the Halls, just a bit to the left of the bridge he was standing on, Legolas noticed something of a light color in the corner of his eye. The prince took a step back, twisted his neck, and managed to see what it was despite the stone brigde impending his sight.

It was a strange vision, surely, that he then witnessed.

His father, king of the Woodland Realm, was sleeping like a baby on the dark sand of the cave, and next to him, Paris was asleep too.

Legolas snorted silently, and went down to them.

As he did so, he noticed a strange scent, and he finally understood why his father and brother were sleeping there, for no apparent reason, though their dreams seemed to be pleasant, for once. The Elvenprince had heard the mortal prince's nightmare, during the night they had spent in the forest. To him, it had sounded as if the young man was apoligizing to someone. Taking into acount William, that made a good number of people who had gained an unusually good time of rest lately.

The prince arched his eyebrows at his sleeping father, wondering how the older elf had managed not to notice, not only the day it was, but also the simple fact that the stream of water was fuming slightly. Then again, it could have been because the Elvenking had been a tad busy worrying about his son. Who was Legolas to blame his father for truly worrying about his sons? All his sons?

A bitter taste suddenly appeared in the elf's mouth.

Why Thranduil couldn't have behaved like that from the beginning, and just with him? Why had it taken the coming of his brothers for him to be looked at normally by his father?

Was he even looked at normally by his father, even now?

Maybe it was just because the others were here, that Thranduil's behavior had changed. Maybe him being more appreciated only came down to that: a result of his brothers' presence. If they went away, maybe everything would fall back into state... and nothing would have changed, aside from the fact that for a few days, a few weeks maybe, he would have known a father's love, that he hadn't ever witnessed before. And even if they didn't leave, three of his brother would die at some point. They were mortals.

Everything would fall back into state, and Will, who was already more than broken, and himself, who would only know his father's love as an alternative, William and Legolas would stay miserable, in the end.

Legolas didn't want to know this fatherly love, if it was only to be temporary. He didn't want it, if it wasn't really meant for him, and only a consequence of the presence of others.

It would have been better if his brothers had never come.

The elf forced himself to calm down. He knew he was just getting jealous, and possibly worried over nothing.

Eventually, he woke up his father and brother. The Elvenking frowned at himself, when he understood what had happened. How could he have forgotten it was that day of the month, when the water would, for some obscure reason, become more dangerous than ever?

Thranduil wondered about those things that he had possibly forgotten, sleeping here, and the things Paris had forgotten too. Of course, since he had forgotten them, he didn't expect to remember what it was that he had forgotten. All he knew, for now, was that the conversation he had had with Paris was more than a bit fuzzy in his memory.

If that was all, it wasn't so terrible.

And even so, he still remembered the good time spent with his first son.

Paris, feeling strangely sleepy, considering he had just slept, blinked a few times, and, since it wasn't getting better, decided he'd better take a rest for the afternoon. Surely it was because of the added tension of the last days.

Thranduil watched his sleepy son make his way back to his room with a fond smile.

Then he turned to his other son, and he thought he saw something in the elf's expression, but it disappeared so quickly he eventually dismissed it.

Legolas told him gravely that his Seneschal was getting anxious over the orders he was supposed to carry out, and that were obviously not explicit enough. The Elvenking grew worried at the notification, and he asked warily how many time had passed since the said Seneschal had come to Legolas. When the Elvenprince told him it had been roughly one hour, the monarch almost cursed under his breth, and rushed in search of his Seneschal. The elf could be downright frightening when he was too anxious.

Legolas followed his father, amused. But he also felt uneasy, and he believed he needed to talk with the older elf privately, as soon as they could. He wasn't going to outright tell his father he was becoming jealous of his newfound brothers and worried about Thranduil's love for him, of course. But he still thought he needed to speak a bit with his father, even if not about the things that bothered him.

The Elvenking had to make it clear that Balian and William would share their rooms with their wives, and that yes, the guests were all to be dispatched in the same area, and that no, there was no need to become so frantic, and that yes, if he wanted, the Seneschal could get the right people to prepare a feast in the following days, because it wouldn't do anyone any bad to rejoice a bit. Finally, Thranduil escaped from the clutch of an overly stressed elf. He still wasn't sure why the elf would stress so much over simple matters such as these, though.

Legolas and his father ended up in the royal quarters, once again, and this time, Thranduil was quite certain something was bothering his son.

Still, the prince managed to misdirect most of his questions, and soon enough, the two elves found themselves talking a bit about the other members of their family. Legolas would ask a question he suspected his father to know the answer to, and then he would listen quietly. From time to time, his face would lit up, or it would darken. He hadn't realized, for exemple, that Will hadn't only lost his wife and his freedom, but also his children, and then the children of his children. Thranduil even told him about the time the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ had collected the soul of Brian's mother, and the shock at the resemblance between her and the captain's mother. The older elf felt a bit bad, speaking of this without either Inasthol's or Raudamon's authorization, but he needed to let go of some of the knowledge he had about his sons' lives, and Legolas seemed eager to learn more about his brothers.

“ _I just hope they will stay here, even if I know it's not possible...”_

Something froze in Legolas' chest, but the younger elf hid it well.

He wasn't sure about why he felt like that: was it because of the possible departure of his brothers... or was it because of jealousy?

“ _What do you mean, it's not possible?”_

The Elvenking smiled sadly, his eyes closed for a moment, and thus he missed the slight anger he could have read in his second son's eyes.

“ _You heard it yourself, Legolas. There are hints that tell us they go back and live their life in the Times they come from. All of our time travelers came from different points of their timelines, and yet none mentioned the disappearance of the others, who are currently less advanced in their own timeline, James Norrington excepted, and that is because they thought him dead. That can only mean they will go back to their time, and almost no time will have passed. William couldn't have married Elizabeth, if she isn't to go back. Sibylla couldn't have wed Balian, if he isn't to go back.”_

Legolas didn't say anything, after that. He certainly didn't know why he was getting jealous like that, but even this jealousy wasn't enough for him to forget to feel sad at the promised departure of his newfounds brothers.

Maybe it was only the change that affected him more than he had believed, he mused.

Maybe there wasn't anything else to it. Just that. Just the change of pace.

 

 

**Royal private dining room**

 

Later that evening, the royals gathered again for dinner.

Brian was slightly suspicious as to why they were still to eat with the king, whom he thought surely had better things to do than to see to his unexpected guests every evening. Then again, he still couldn't fathom why the Elvenking would call him “my son” as he had believed the man to be asleep. Unless it was true, that is. The detective had no idea how this would be possible, but he knew, on the other hand, that it was possible for the king to believe it to be true. After all, he and the others looked just like the Elvenprince. And there was the issue of the Elvenqueen and his mother...

Well, if anything, Brian didn't believe the Elvenking to have ill intentions towards them anymore, not that he had really believed it even in the beginning. He could have a good night of sleep.

Paris almost smiled heartfully as he saw the monarch enter the room, though he wasn't sure why he did. All he knew was that the talk they had had earlier had been good for his mood, and that the Elvenking seemed to like him well enough. The Trojan didn't know why, but that knowledge made him feel safe.

Will's smile was almost genuine, too.

Sleeping was something he did so rarely, when aboard the _Dutchman_ , that his mind had been on constant alert for the last fifty-seven years. That had been the last time he had slept, although unwillingly. It didn't work at all for his peace of mind, and there was no wondering he felt better, even after only a few hours of sleep, during which his nightmares had been so subdued he almost didn't remember them. Even if he was quite sure as to what their content had been...

Not sleeping, besides the fact that it lead to death if it lasted too long, not sleeping could drive someone mad. Lack of sleep couldn't kill him, but it could make him insane, even if his tired brain wouldn't create hallucinations, as he didn't get tired.

Will had almost forgotten what it meant to be at peace, and now he remembered. He wasn't at peace, of course, not with all that he had to mourn about, but he remembered what it was like. It surely was a progress.

As for Legolas, the elf wasn't feeling any of the anger, nor of the worry and jealousy, as he sat amongst his brothers, and with his father. His family wasn't complete yet, but it still felt much better than it had ever felt. He only hoped that one day, his mother could be there too, with them.

No matter how impossible the dream, dreaming was necessary. He had learned it the hard way.

Finally, Balian was as silent as ever, but a light smile adorned his calm face. He had no doubt that Sibylla would soon join him, and the Elvenking somewhat reminded him of Baudouin IV. The two were fairly different, but they still shared some similarities. They had both suffered greatly, and it could be seen in the way their kindness was put into actions. And the most important thing was that they were fair, as long as they had no reason to be angered. Not all the kings he had known had been this great.

There were no reason for him to be worried. Balian liked the calm, and the peace that seemed to rule the Halls of Thranduil. He liked the carefree yet wise way of life of the elves. With them, he felt as if he could just close his eyes, and dream until the end of his time on Earth. A dream were him and Sibylla would simply be side by side, and were, maybe, he'd have a child. A dream were peace would exist, and not only be another dream.

The former Lord of Ibelin knew this world was on the edge of war. He could see it in the eyes of the people he had met. Yet he could also see hope in those eyes, and that was more than what he himself had felt during the siege of Jerusalem. Nevertheless, he had fought, and bought the people's survival. Many had not lived to know this freedom, though. It would be the same here, not so far away in the future.

Still, he had hope.

The dinner ended earlier than the day before, but all went to their room, except Balian. He could see they were exhausted, maybe because of the summoning that had pulled them through time and space, but he had slept enough the previous day. So he wandered a bit in the Halls.

It didn't last long, though.

 

 

**The village – Orodir's party**

 

The walkers finally arrived to a village, the very same where Legolas and his brothers had arrived the day before, around ten in the evening. It was a soldier who spotted them, walking in the dark. The ellon stared for half a second, and once he was certain they were not enemies, he signaled them to his captain, who went to meet them with two elves, after having called for a healer, as Legolas Thranduilion had told them that one of the men was gravely injured.

Orodir nodded a silent greeting to his fellow captain, and then immediately began to tell him a brief summary of who they were, only keeping to himself the most troubling matters. King, queen and princess, all from other Ages, this kind of things. The other captain felt he wasn't being told everything, but a single glance at the mortals convinced him he'd rather not ask about what hadn't been confided.

There was something about them, that not only made them appear peculiar to the elven captain, but also made them more than mere mortals. The older man, especially, and the youngest woman too. The captain was positive Orodir couldn't have missed that, and so if his fellow captain had decided not to talk about it, he surely had a reason.

James Norrington was soon seen by a healer, whose eyebrows disappeared behind her blond hair as soon as she saw the wound she had to treat. The man was ushered forcefully to the healer's house, to be taken care of for the night. Odysseus and the ellon who were holding the stretcher wisely decided not to protest as the elleth made them hurry, but carefully, but Anamaria dismissed all advices and just followed the stretcher, planning on sitting all the night outside of the house if needed. The healer held the woman's glare for a moment, but shrugged and let her in. The black woman had obviously seen her fair share of wounds in her years.

Cassandra, Elizabeth and Sibylla were shown to an empty house, where they would be sharing a room. Odysseus soon joined them, and took another room for the night. They slept well that night, in beds and sheets, but also because they were a bit tired, to exhausted, depending on their own experience with physical efforts. Elizabeth and Odysseus were, of course, the less tired of the group.

 

 

**Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – royal quarters**

 

While William, Legolas, Brian and Paris had decided to go to bed early, it wasn't Thranduil's case.

The Elvenking watched all his children leave, and lingered behind for a time, alone in the dining room, looking at the painting of his wedding. He sighed quietly, wishing Aeweryn could be there to see this miracle.

Their family, returned to him.

Almost.

“ _If you could see them, meleth... Firlach looks too much like you, whereas I don't have even one to be my clone. All the others are a mix of both us. Inasthol, though, is just like me in personality. And I am worried about Legolas, he doesn't seem to be taking this as well as it first seemed. Raudamon is worse than even me, and I'm sure you'd spend years lecturing him about his former wife, if you could. And Irban... he is so quiet, sometimes I feel like I'm watching your father. Incredible, they are, really. You'd be proud to see them so grown up, even if they aren't all that happy.”_

A sad smile took over his mouth, and Thranduil drew back the velvet curtain that usually hid the painting.

“ _If you were here, Aeweryn, I'm certain you would know what to do to ensure their happiness. Myself, I am not even able to ensure my own, and I can only undermine Legolas', it would seem.”_

Then the Elvenking left the private dining room, and on his way to the outside, for he wished to look at the stars for a little while, he found Irban, standing in silence under a light well.

The blacksmith was looking up, at the dim starlight above him. At his advanced hour, no one was likely to walk around, so he just stood there, looking at these stars. He could recognize some.

Balian was pretty certain that if this was the past, if this was his world, only, millenia prior to his time, it must be somewhere north to France. The forest they had ended up in was just as cold as his village back home, but the village had been in the mountains. Maybe this was the past of Germany, he mused. From what he had heard of the land, it was cold enough, and there was a giant forest there. It could be. Unless it was even further to the North. He wasn't sure.

Not that it mattered much, anyway.

He knew the stars in the night sky. Not all of them, for he had seen, when in Jerusalem and in Ibelin, that not all stars could be seen from a single place. The kingdom of Jerusalem's and France's stars weren't exactly the same. Here, he could see yet another piece of the sky.

Some stars were still there, but some weren't visible. Still, they were stars.

He could look at them all the same.

Balian heard light footsteps coming , and he turned his head to see the Elvenking walking towards him. Elves sure were light-footed, and he could hear Thranduil Oropherion only because the whole corridor was silent.

The Elvenking looked up at the light well, with longing on his face for an instant, but it quikly disappeared.

Then, the elf did something Balian had not expected.

“ _Savez-vous garder un secret?”_

Thranduil had thought about this for a whole minute before he had decided to walk to his son. He had thought it over, and over, and over, just as much as one minute could let him think about it, and finally, he had relented.

Maybe it wasn't a good idea. Maybe he should not have.

But reason couldn't always guide the mind. Reason wasn't what people lived for. It certainly wasn't what the Elvenking lived for, if anything. If it had been, Thranduil would have been able to look at Legolas without feeling hurt that he was the only one of his sons living in the Halls. He would have been able, despite the hurt, to see past that, or at least not to let it show.

Despite reason, then, Tranduil had decided he'd talk to his son, just this time. Even if, for that, he needed to reveal to Hirban that he could speak French. He just couldn't wait for his son to learn to speak Westron or Sindarin. It simply wasn't possible. And while Inasthol was doing a marvelous job of translation with Firlach and Hirban, it was never a true conversation. Moreover, there were things, surely, that even if they knew he was their father, the two wouldn't talk about through an mediator.

Balian looked at the Elvenking with mild surprise in his eyes, but calm as always. Thraduil couldn't remember him ever being anything else than calm. Maybe that came from Aeweryn. It certainly didn't come from him.

The blacksmith observed the king's face, and whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him.

“ _Bien sûr.”_

It wasn't as if the Elvenking speaking French was particularly alarming. And Balian certainly could keep a secret. It wasn't as if he was particularly talkative, after all.

Thranduil looked once again up the well, and offered to take the blacksmith outside of the Halls, to one of the squares of the elven city above them. It would be easier to see the stars from there.

Balian and Thranduil made their way out of the Halls, passing by the cave of the throne, and after that to the corridor the brothers had precedently walked in. They arrived at the high doors of the underground castle, that opened for them on their own. The Elvenking explained that they had been charmed to respond only to his kin, but that he usually kept them open during the day, if not in fact, at least in magic. Anyone could open them, as long as he wished for it to be so, but if he decided they were to be kept shut, no one would be able to pass them without taking them down.

They left the Halls, and walked into the town. Balian took the opportunity to observe the place a bit better than he had the day before.

There were a few houses on the ground, but more than half of the residences were up in the trees, built around the trunks. There were a few footbridges connecting the various tree-houses, and many could be accessed by either rope ladders or wooden stairs. Light orbs such as those in the cave of the throne lit the alleys between the trees, but they were few, and twice to thrice as big as the ones in the Halls. The other lights he could see where usually glass recipients in the form of a flower or a leaf, with a little fire in it. Balian wondered how they kept burning through the night.

Thranduil led him up the hill, and they arrived in a grand square, with a hight fountain in the center. The ground was pierced in some places; the holes were most likely the entrance to the light wells. It wasn't dangerous, though, because the elves had turned the holes into the centers of small gardens, where no one could set foot without walking right into a bush or upon a flower of some kind.

Few elves were still outside, despite the good weather. It was the end of automn, after all, and the inhabitants of the elven city would rather stay home in the evening, when there wasn't an event of some kind to lure them in the cold of the night.

Balian got a few curious looks as they sat on a bench near the foutain, but nothing more. The rumors had spread faster than expected, Thranduil mused.

The two of them hadn't said much, when they left the square, around one in the morning. They hadn't said much, but it hadn't been awkward.

They had just looked at the sky, and at the stars. At some point, Hirban had asked how the Elvenking could possibly speak a language that didn't exist yet. Thranduil had asked how the man could look so much like his son. Oddly, Balian had smiled a bit at the question.

When they went back to the Halls, and when the Elvenking left his fifth son to go to his own quarters, Thranduil had the disturbing feeling that the blacksmith had understood more than he had said this night.

Which was likely to be true, considering Balian had hardly spoken more than ten sentences in all the time they had just spent together. With all that he had said, it was more than probable that he knew more than what he had said.

The Elvenking didn't know, though, how much Hirban believed.

 

 

**The village – Orodir's party**

 

Anamaria woke up a bit before dawn. The black woman rose slowly from the bed the elven healer had had the generosity to offer to her, saying that anyway, she wouldn't sleep this night, as she'd rather check on the state of Norrington.

The admiral was still asleep, Anamaria noticed, and he wasn't sweating as much as he had during the previous day. He was still mumbling something under his breath, but she couldn't understand what it was. The woman shrugged, and ended up just looking at him.

Since they had all been brought in this time, Anamaria had wondered: why her? After all, she could understand why the others had been summoned, although as side-effects for most of them.

Elizabeth Swann was Turner's wife, even if she actually wasn't yet. They loved each other. More, she was even a “someone”. She was the daughter of an english governor. She was the Pirate King. Elizabeth Swann was someone, and she mattered to Turner.

James Norrington wasn't particularly close to the Turner boy, but he had been his rival in love. He was also someone important. Commodore of the Navy, and later an admiral of Beckett.

The Greeks were important too. One princess and a king of legends, one of which was the sister of a Turner's lookalike.

Sibylla of Jerusalem was a queen, and another Turner lookalike's wife.

And then, of course, there were the Turner lookalikes, one of which had been there from the beginning, and was a prince, and an immortal elf; there was yet another prince amongst them, and he was a living legend; there was the Turner boy, who was the new captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ ; there was a knight who was also a lord; there was only one who seemed to be more or less normal. Still, them, it wasn't a wonder why they had been summoned. After all, they were the reason and the vectors of the summon; what this reason was, she didn't know, but she knew they were it.

But her?

Anamaria was no one.

She wasn't especially close to Turner, and she wasn't “someone”. So why was she here? Why had she been taken away from her life in Tortuga, and thrown into this time, this place, with these people?

Was there even a reason to her being brought here?

The black woman was startled out of her thoughts when the healer came in the room, with fresh bandages for the admiral.

“Is he your husband?”

Anamaria would have gone bright red, if she hadn't been dark of skin. What had given the female elf that idea?!?

“Of course not! James Norrington is just an admiral I barely saw from afar once or twice.”

The elf looked at her curiously, and smiled lightly.

“Why then have you insisted to stay here all night?”

“I needed to do something. So I decided to keep an eye on him, since he was injured.”

The healer asked no other question, but there was a strange glint in her eyes as she looked at the dark-skinned woman and the injured man. Anamaria did her best not to notice it, even if the very fact that she was doing this meant she had in fact noticed it, and she knew that well.

Anamaria left the house as the elven healer changed the bandages, chosing instead to keep to the outside and wait for whatever would come next here.

After a few minutes, a few elven children were looking at her from a bit farther away, absolutely curious about this mortal with a strange color of skin. The woman noticed them, but she said nothing, nor she acknowledged them. They came closer after a time; some of them could speak Westron, and they asked her where she came from. Anamaria did her best not to scowl at the intrusion, and to smile instead, indulging their curiosity as best as she could without giving away the fact that she wasn't actually from this time. They were children, after all.

Maybe she would have been a bit more upset, if she had known that some of them were actually older than her. Elves weren't fully grown until they turned fifty; Anamaria was only twenty seven. But the fact was, she didn't know that, so she stayed perfectly civil.

Eventually Odysseus and Elizabeth Swann came to the house, to see how Norrington was doing, and to tell them they would be leaving soon. They still had a bit of walking to do before reaching the Elvenking's castle.

The Pirate King talked to the healer, who told her the admiral should even be able to walk on his own... if he woke up, of course. The elleth had taken care of the infection; it hadn't been anything too serious, even if the man would possibly be a bit feverish for a few days after that. She wasn't very happy with the idea of her patient walking already, but Elizabeth knew very well that James wouldn't allow himself to be moved on a stretcher if he could walk on his own, even if he wasn't fully healed yet. The Pirate King told the healer as much, casting a dirty look at the sleeping man as she did so. If there was one thing on which James and Will were alike, it was about resting after being wounded. But maybe this was just them being men.

Orodir came by twenty minutes later, just after the admiral actually woke up. It was time to go.

However, the elven captain took a step back when the healer sent him a stern look, saying she still had to speak with the wounded about not doing anything stupid on the way, such as opening his wound again just because he didn't want to be carried anymore.

When Elizabeth, Anamaria and Odysseus saw the elven captain and the admiral get out of the healer's house and walk to them with something akind to a scowl on their faces, the three guessed, surely with reason, that the two hadn't been pleased with being told that injured people shouldn't be moving around too much. Elizabeth couldn't help but wonder if maybe, the captain had been given this speech many times in the past, and had not listened very often. Why else would he look so sullen now?

Once everyone was present, the walkers resumed their walk to the Halls of Thranduil. Norrington swayed on his feet once or twice, but he stubbornly refused any help, and Elizabeth had to smack him on the head to get him to at least lean onto the ithacan king when the world started to spin around him. Odysseus didn't mind, after all. Anamaria had been glaring at the injured admiral each time he had almost tripped on nothing, and she kept an eye on him even after the smack. Sibylla was walking next to Cassandra, having noticed how the young trojan princess seemed to feel bad for some reason, but the former queen of Jerusalem didn't get any answers. Orodir and his elves, as well as two soldiers who had joined them on their walk to the Halls, watched over the party. The elven captain had worry etched on his face each time he saw Cassandra of Troy shudder at the power to the South-East.

They finally reached the entrance to the Halls.

The mortal walkers looked up in wonder at the high doors that barred the cave, at the carved pillars that stood before the doors, at the thin brigde that crossed high above a stream and between them and the pillars. They had had a bit of time to enjoy elven architecture on their way to the underground castle of Legolas' father, yet they hadn't seen anything quite like that until now. Then again, elves appeared to dwell mostly in trees or on the ground, and not below it. So they hadn't seen, so far, anything like the entrance to the Halls.

The doors opened, and two elven guards appeared out of the large caves that were the Halls. Soon after them, came a hesitant William Turner, a silent but softly smiling Balian of Ibelin, an awkward Paris of Troy, and a suspicious Brian Epkeen, who kept throwing glances behind him, at someone the newcomers still couldn't see.

The someone turned out to be a very tall elf, with a regal look on his face, long blond hair, and fabulous eyebrows, though Elizabeth kept that particular comment to herself, just in case.

Next to that elf stood Legolas Thranduilion.

Elizabeth squinted a bit at the two. They didn't exactly look like one another, but their eyes were the same color, and their hair were the same shade... Certainly family members. Oh wait.

This was the Elvenking, she realized, but before she could think of anything to say or do, Will had joined her, and hugged her with all his might, as if she was going to disappear or something. The Pirate King froze at the hug, clearly taken aback, but after a time she returned it, and she felt her husband-to-be-who-was-already-without-really-being relax. For some reason, all her doubts about him keeping something from her flew away in that instant.

This was William, there was no questioning it.

This was Will.

Balian had also made his way to his regal wife, and he was holding her hand in silence, both looking at each other's eyes, as if all that mattered in the world could be found there. Maybe it was the case, after all. Who knew?

While the two couples found their other one once again, Paris shifted, not daring to look at his sister.

He wasn't sure why, but he was under the impression he had talked to someone, or rather, someone had talked to him, about his guilt, the day before. He vaguely remembered a conversation with the Elvenking, but so vaguely he had no idea what they had actually talked about. He mused it wasn't so surprising, considering the circumstances. Surely he had tuned out many other things that had happened since he had been pulled out of the war.

He doubted the Elvenking had anything to do with that impression, though. Surely the elf had other things to attend to. It had surely been to someone else that he had talked about that. But as he couldn't remember quite well, even if he felt less guilty about it all, he still didn't feel right about what he had caused.

Surely Cassandra hated him, now.

He had gotten Hector killed. He had gotten his own father killed. He had unleashed the greed of Agamemnon upon Troy, and hundreds, thousands perhaps, of his people had died. He had their blood on his hands... and even if one day he managed not to believe it anymore, would his sister be able not to blame him for what he had done?

Finally Paris glanced up, and the face Cassandra was making, looking about to faint, shivering slightly, and startled at the slightest sound, that face she was making without meaning to, it cut him out of his worries. Instead, he ran to his sister, and tried to calm her down.

As for the others, Norrington had gone stiff as a stick as soon as he had recognized the air of authority that came from the Elvenking, and that despite his injury. Anamaria had to force the Navy man to stop it with a stern look, and she followed him as he was ushered to the Rooms of Healing.

The admiral was still a bit feverish, after all.

That left Brian, who was still trying to figure out what exactly he had missed, Legolas, who watched with amusement the reunions, and Thranduil, who was doing his best not to look curious, when he actually was. The Elvenking was finally getting to know, even if barely, his daughters-in-law. Two of them, at least. Helen wasn't here. But Elizabeth and Sibylla were two women he had never thought he'd meet, and yet, here they were, with their husbands. With his sons.

He had watched countless moments of their lives, true. But it wasn't the same.

Eventually, Thranduil had to break the moments, as he greeted the newcomers. Anamaria, Brian and Norrington were the most awkward of the all, in this situation, though Paris wasn't far behind. Even if William was the only one to know, with Legolas, and perhaps Balian, who the Elvenking really was to him, the captain was far too busy enjoying the return of his wife to feel disturbed by it.

Thranduil soon left, but Legolas remained. The prince showed them the guest quarters where they would reside for the time they'd spend in the Halls, but they ultimately decided to have some kind of meeting, far away from prying ears. They all moved to the royal quarters, to Legolas' suite.

They all felt they still had to discuss some things about what had happened to them all. Much like they had before escaping the orcs' lair, they sat in a loose circle in the Elvenprince's living room. Back then, they hadn't had much time to discuss all that needed to be said, and since then, some decisions had been taken. It would be better if everyone had the same story to tell.

There was a short time of utter silence, at first, that some of them used to take a better look at the room. Except those who were accustomed to regal dwellings, they all felt a bit awkward in there.

Eventually, Legolas managed to bring himself not to stare at his brothers, at his brothers' wives, or at anyone in particular, and to speak up.

“As you may have guessed, William's, Balian's, Paris', Brian's and my own looks are rather similar.”

Brian arched an eyebrow at that statement, but Elizabeth, who was on his right, smacked him lightly on the head. Apparently, she had taken it upon herself to do that with anyone who behaved like an idiot, nevermind that they weren't from her time. Norrington shared a pained look with the detective, knowing very well that they were the two most likely to get smacked often enough, with Will, of course.

While the Pirate King was busy disciplining the idiot, the ithacan king spoke up.

“ _I suppose we cannot say the truth of what has happened, can we?”_

Elizabeth translated his question, as she had translated the Elvenprince's statement before she had started taking care of Brian's stupidity. Sibylla being otherwise occupied with translating for her husband, Brian's mastery of the language being really superficial, and Will being still unwilling to declare to the world that he could actually speak Greek, she was the only one up to the job.

Legolas winced slightly.

“I would advise not to. While you were still on your way, we all, my father inclded, have discussed an explanation, that I hope you will find good enough.”

Then he repeated the idea they had come up with, adding that it wasn't really a problem if they didn't remember it exactly, since if it had been the truth, they may not have known of it anyway. They just needed to say more or less the same things, when it came to the guess about the lookalikes' similarities, even if they needed to be concordant about what had happened in the facts.

Once that was done, the time travelers and the Elvenprince tried to get to know each other a little better.

Sibylla noticed that the trojan princess seemed to feel better now that they had arrived, even if she still looked a bit frightened from time to time. Eventually, she managed to get her to talk.

It was Odysseus, who, overhearing the conversation, linked the dots together.

The King of Ithaca had felt the presence, far, far away to the South-East. He had known there was something, and he had known that the trojan princess could feel it. But unlike Cassandra of Troy, whose gift and curse came from Apollo himself, Odysseus of Ithaca was not a seer of any kind. His senses were sharpened because of his ancestors, true, and he had sensed it, that thing, that power, dark and evil, but he had not been able to say it was a sentient being.

It had made him feel ill-at-ease, but not threatened like the trojan princess.

But if she said it was something sentient, something that was maybe a someone...

“ _Queen Sibylla, could you ask our host about this presence?”_

The former queen of Jerusalem pointed out she wasn't a queen anymore, but did as she was asked anyway.

“Prince Legolas, Cassandra says there is a powerful and malevolent being far to the South-East that clouds her mind. Seeing as she has been given a strong clairvoyance by the god of dream and truth himself, I wouldn't dismiss it as I would for anyone else. Do you happen to know what it is about?”

Everyone's attention suddenly turned to the two Greeks, the french queen and the Elvenprince.

Legolas had visibly tensed, and it didn't escape anyone's notice that it wasn't a good thing.

“A powerful, malicious, lurking evil, that dwells in the land of Mordor?”

The elf's face paled a bit.

He hadn't thought of telling them this soon, about the threat of Sauron. He hadn't thought that he'd have to tell them, in fact. He hadn't even thought about it.

Sauron was a threat he had lived all his life knowing about. The Dark Lord was weakened, after the Last Alliance. Legolas hadn't been born at the time. But weakened though he was, Sauron was still here. Not so long ago, he had dwelt in this very forest, in Dol Goldur. There hadn't been many great battles, in the last centuries, but the orcs and the other monsters of Arda were still here, under his command. Biding their time.

Sauron was the Witch King's master. Sauron had more than probably ordered what had been done to the Elvenprince, even if Legolas had no idea why, or even how the fallen Maia had known about his brothers. About William's immortality.

It concerned them all, he suddenly realized.

Legolas' smile had completely disappeared, when he spoke again.

“This is History, I must warn you. But when Eru Ilúvatar created this world, he gave life to the most powerful beings after him: the Ainur. They helped him shape the world. The most powerful of them are the Valar, and the less powerful are the Maiar. Nevertheless, they all are more powerful than I can even imagine.”

There, he glanced at William, but the man wouldn't compromise his secret to help him. Instead, it was James Norrington who spoke, thoughtful.

“So if I get this right, this Eru Ilúvatar is your name for God, the Ainur are angels, with the Valar amongst them being archangels... or something like that.”

William nodded discreetly, and Sibylla, who was translating for Balian, as well as Elizabeth, who was doing so for the Greeks, adjusted the story as they could. In French, it wasn't too much of a problem, but for the Greeks, it was another story altogether. They didn't have one “God” in their beliefs, after all, the gods being in fact the Ainur... from what Elizabeth had understood.

“I suppose so. The point is, one of the Valar betrayed them all, and became a Dark Lord, bringing some Maiar with him in his fall. His name was Melkor as a Vala, and Morgoth as a traitor.”

This time, Will felt confortable enough to say something without betraying himself.

“The Devil and his demons. Melkor is Lucifer, and he became Satan, or Morgoth, when he fell from grace. I guess the fallen Maiar are what we came to call the strongest demons of Hell, such as Samael or Belial.”

Elizabeth gave her husband a strange look. She hadn't known William to be so well-versed in religion. Then again, in their time, it was quite normal, and anyway, they had been too busy fighting for their lives to quiz each other about their religious knowledge.

“Eventually Morgoth was beaten, but not all his lieutenants were. The worst of all, Sauron, or as he was called before his fall, Mairon, is still here. He has taken the mantle of Dark Lord, and even if he is still weakened by his last defeat, three thousand years ago, he is gathering power once again. And he dwells in a forsaken land, Mordor, that is to the South-East.”

The Greeks came to the conclusion that Morgoth was certainly the one they had known as Cronos, though he wasn't father to the other Valar, but they had no idea as to who Sauron could refer to in their twisted knowledge of the true powers of this world. Still, that didn't make them feel better.

After this depressing episode, the conversations had a hard time getting back on. In the end, they all dispersed, Legolas only stopping to make sure that Cassandra was not in any danger. The princess of Troy told him she felt better, as if protected, in a way, now that she was in the Halls. The Elvenprince mused it had to do with the enchantments and the prolonged presence of the elves in these lands. He hoped it would last.

He didn't wish upon anyone, least of all the gentle princess, to be subjected to the presence of the Dark Lord.

 

 

**The cave**

 

Thranduil was looking at the now mute basin, when the doors to the cave opened.

Recognising Legolas' footsteps, he looked up. He had allowed both Inasthol and Legolas inside, after he had told them the truth, and he had made sure the guards outside knew of it, even if they had been startled that an unknown mortal would be allowed to come into the cave that no one, save the Elvenking and two trusted elves, had ever entered.

“ _Legolas, I hope it isn't too difficult for you to accept this rather unexpected turn of event?”_

His son sighed, and sat down on the floor.

“ _I don't want to lie to you, ada, but sometimes I... I believe it is jealousy that I feel. They come, and instantly you look at them in the way I have wanted you to look at me for millenia. I know I shouldn't be jealous...”_

The younger's elf lips twitched a bit.

“ _I don't even know why I am jealous. I am an elf, not a man. I shouldn't be jealous for so small a matter. Yet I am. And I don't want to be.”_

Thranduil forced himself not to look away. He couldn't, with all he owed to his son, all those years of coldness, all the despair to please he had read in Legolas' eyes, over the centuries. He couldn't, and shouldn't look away.

Yet he was tempted to. After all, it was his shame; he had been the one to cause his second son to think like this.

“ _I can only apologize, iôn-nin. Without my shortcomings, you wouldn't think like that. You would be able to enjoy their presence, at least for the time they have here.”_

Legolas didn't say anything for a while, only looking up, to the ceiling, in the darkness that the torches couldn't reach.

Eventually, the silence died away.

“ _Ada, I think you need to know... Cassandra of Troy, Paris' sister, can sense the growing darkness of Sauron even in the Halls. She has to have a sight that rivals the Lady of Light's, if her mind can get past the enchantments, but she is no elf. I fear she has no control over her sight, and it could be dangerous to her.”_

For a time, the Elvenking seemed startled by the news. He hadn't thought about it, but it made sense...

“ _Cassandra of Troy suffers from both a gift and a curse from Lórien himself, Legolas. William told you how the Ainur went half-mad in the Sixth Age? She refused herself to the Vala, and he turned her gift of prophecy into a curse of disbelief. No one listened to her when she warned her city that Paris' choice would bring the downfall of Troy, but it came to be. For years she had been saying the truth, but no one would believe her. And if you believe her now, I think it is because the Lórien of this Age is sane, and he felt what he had done to her, what he would do to her. He lifted the curse, and left her the gift.”_

Or at least, Thranduil guessed it was the case.

Both elves prayed for it to be true, and for the trojan princess not to become a victim of her power.

 

 

**TA 3017, December**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**Halls of Thranduil**

 

A bit more than one month had passed since the time travelers had arrived in Mirkwood, and they were still enjoying the Elvenking's hospitality. The elves of Greenwood the Great had stopped looking at them in surprise, though they never missed an opportunity to marvel at the Elvenprince's lookalikes, their eyes lit in wonder. Life was going on, as always, even if the number of attacks on the borders of the kingdom had not diminished.

Life was going on, even if the time travelers weren't exactly sure as to where it was going. They weren't “home”, they couldn't get “home”, and they had no idea if there was even a way to go “home”. They were stuck in a Time that wasn't theirs, with people they shouldn't have known, for they came from another Age too, and for some of them, they couldn't even communicate efficiently with one another, because they didn't share a language.

On this point, though, they were getting better.

So for now, they lived as they could.

Balian and Sibylla lived their quiet love in tranquility, the former queen of Jerusalem teaching her husband how to speak English, when he wasn't at the forges, observing the smiths. Or learning from them. The elven smiths seemed delighted to have someone to teach their own crafting methods, something they didn't do for just any mortal. When he had told them about the sword he wished to make, and how the original was, they had been more than pleased with the project. Together, the mortal and the immortals were working on the better way to make another Sword of Ibelin. William was often with them, too.

As for Sibylla, she was slowly bettering her Greek, and she could now speak to the Trojans and the Ithacan easily enough. She spent much time with Cassandra, but also with the Elvenking, whom she had forced to confess the truth about Balian in less than a week. She hadn't told her huband, though; Balian had been more than able to figure it out on his own, and she knew he didn't really believe it yet. She felt it would be better for him to have a bit more time, before he got to see his other body, down there, in the cave.

Will was still playing a role with Elizabeth, but his happiness was true. He couldn't get his eyes off her long enough to do anything, unless it involved sword fighting or sword smithing. In that, he had become good friend with Balian, the two of them spending hours with the elven smiths of the city. He had also grown closer to Norrington, whose injury was healing well, for their fighting style was most special in this Age, and he was planning on making another short sword for the admiral, who had refused to take back his own, saying it did well with its maker. But most of all, what changed during this month, was that Will had not had a single nightmare since Elizabeth had joined him in the Halls.

Elizabeth and Anamaria were getting closer by the day. When her husband was duelling with James, the Pirate King could always be found nearby, usually fighting with the black woman until one of them was weaponless. Their fighting styles were getting dirtier each day, but well, orcs weren't gentlemen, and if ever they met another one... The women weren't planning on letting it get away unscathed. Lucky for them that they had so much experience with pirates, on that point.

Odysseus often came to watch them practice, and sometimes he would take part in it. He was a brilliant fighter, and wasn't lacking in underhanded combat skills, even if he was a man of honor for all that mattered. Strangely enough, he was already able to converse in English, Sindarin and French as if he had started learning these languages half a year prior. Everybody but him seemed bemused by his learning prowess. If he went on like this, it was more than possible that he would speak the three languages perflectly when summer would be here.

The ithacan king also trained with Norrington, knowing better than anyone how to get him to fight accordingly to his wound. The admiral thought it strange, how he didn't think anything anymore about how Elizabeth and Turner were married. From time to time, he would look at the governor's daughter fighting, and his heart would clench as he remembered what had happened to Weatherby Swann. So he would do his best not to look at the woman whose father he had almost helped to kill, and his eyes would fix themselves on the other figure of the fight.

Anamaria had been gifted a simple cutlass by William Turner, when he had seen the state of hers. It wasn't overly decorated, but it was functional, and she had been adamant that she wouldn't accept anything more than that. When she wasn't training, the black woman could be found, to her own surprise, with the elven children of Greenwood the Great. They weren't many, for the elves could sense war brewing, and they didn't want a child to live throught it. Also, they had millenia to think about being parents, and so they had a birth ratio much lower than for any other race.

They all learned more about the various races of the Free People, too, and about the various races of monsters that existed, most of them having been twisted from their original forms by either Morgoth or Sauron. Even William shuddered when he thought of the fallen Maiar who had become balrogs. Not that they would be able to kill him, but still. The undead captain was quite sure their fire could be very, very painful.

As for Cassandra, her state was slowly getting worse, even if she hid it well. She never put a foot outside of the city, where she felt her clairvoyance wasn't affecting her as strongly as during the journey to the Halls. When inside the enchantments of the elven city, the trojan princess felt that she could still sense, but had less chances to be sensed, especially by the evil presence that was Sauron. She remained careful, and did not try to sense too far, but she wasn't as worried as before that he'd discover her. It didn't mean the pressure was non-existent.

Paris was getting more and more worried, and spent all his time with her. She had yet to forgive him for the war, but she was comforted by his presence, so she accepted it. He apologized once a day, hoping that maybe, she would eventually come not to resent him too much. She had already told him that, if anything, it hadn't been entirely his fault. He knew she would never think it wasn't his fault at all, because it was not the case. But he hoped she would still forgive him for his mistakes.

Brian was of course still trying to discover the secret of the Elvenqueen, and so he spent most of his time with Legolas. It wasn't a waste of time, if only because he seemed to do very well with knife fighting and knife throwing. Unlike the Elvenking had thought, he hadn't been the first one to discover what the secret was, but it was because, unlike Balian, he simply couldn't even consider that what he had in fact discoveed, could be the truth. Balian was doubtful; Brian had cast aside the very idea.

Legolas' anger took some time to disappear, but after a while, it wasn't here any more. The jealousy neither. The worry, on the other hand, hadn't disappeared. It was normal. He didn't want his brothers to leave him alone once more. So he spent time with them, when he could. Will was the one who could spend the most time with his brother, for he never got tired, and who would question it the least, as he knew the truth. Brian was proving himself to be a deadly opponent, and Legolas was already thinking of getting him a set of knives as a gift, though he didn't know how he could explain that. Sometimes the Elvenprince would join Paris, and they'd watch in silence Cassandra sleeping, slightly shivering; Paris' presence helped his sister, and Legolas' helped his brother to hold on. Finally, the time the prince spent with Balian was mostly in the night, when the french man went out to look at the stars.

The days had flown by, turning into weeks, and soon more than one month had passed.

When the middle of december came, someone came to the Halls as well.

It was a man, a mortal, who was still older than any mortal presently in the Halls of Thranduil, yet he didn't look older than Odysseus himself. The ithacan king was the first one to see him approach, with the disgusting and pitiful creature that he had chained.


	6. It didn't make sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I will not redo the presentation each time. But this time I felt it was needed.  
> And I'm quite sure there was something else I wanted to say, but guess what, I forgot what it was.

**TA 3017, December**

 

**Greenwood the Great**

**The capital – Outskirts of the city**

 

Aragorn could see the training fields of the elven capital of Eryn Galen, not far ahead. He only had a few steps to take, and he would be in the city. He only had one of two miles to go, and he would step into the Halls of Thranduil. He only had to hold on, and he could entrust Gollum to the elves and to their dungeons.

The pitiful creature behind him tried once again to get away, but he was well chained, and the d ** únadan ** had not kept an eye on the being for so long, going so far as to reduce his time of sleep even more than warranted, to let him escape now. He was almost there. Aragorn yanked on the chain in his hand, and Gollum whimpered.

Two months back, the ranger might have felt guilty about that whimper. Gollum could certainly look pitiful, when he wanted to, but Aragorn had already been fooled once, and it had almost cost him a hand.

So Aragorn walked, Gollum still in leash, towards the training fields. Anytime now, a soldier or a guard would notice him, and he'd be done with the creature. He was well-known in the city, even if he was only a mortal, as he had taken the head of the rangers of the North. Even filthy as he was, he would be recognized. As for Gollum...

The creature's looks and the fact that he was chained would be enough for the elves to take him to the Halls' dungeons, hopefully, until Aragorn could explain his quest to the Elvenking. The dúnadan wasn't sure how much Thranduil knew from Gandalf, but he had little doubts as to how the king would treat Gollum. Elves were compassionate, but not idiots, and Thranduil even more so than the others. And in Arda, wretched creatures often looked like they were in the inside, though evil could also be found in the hearts of the fairest.

The elves might give a chance to the creature, despite his looks, but they wouldn't be so compassionate as to endanger their people for a being they knew nothing of.

Someone started moving out of the training fields, and towards Aragorn and Gollum, so the ranger stopped walking, waiting for recognition.

But when the person got close enough for Aragorn to distinguish his features, the d ú nadan found that it wasn't an elf, surprisingly, but a man. The ranger squinted, trying to see better. It wasn't unusual for men to be in the elven capital, because Mirkwood traded with Esgaroth and Dale on a weekly basis, but it was rare enough for it to be surprising.

An elven soldier joined the man, and both continued to walk towards Aragorn and Gollum, speaking quietly. When they arrived before him, they barely looked at Gollum. The ellon greeted Aragorn, immediately asking if he wanted to meet Thranduil right away or if he'd rather take some rest.

“ _I will speak to the Elvenking, please, but if it isn't asking for too much, I'd appreciate resting afterwards. I have tracked down this Gollum for several weeks, through stone deserts and marshlands, and I am quite weary now.”_

The soldier nodded, and presented him to the man who stood in silence, now observing Gollum with mild interest. Apparently he was one of the current guests of Thranduil, and a skilled warrior.

Then the elf took Gollum's chain from the ranger's hands, before going ahead to the Halls, both to deliver the creature to the wardens and to inform the Elvenking of the d ú nadan's arrival. Gollum eyed his new keeper warily, but one last glance at the ranger, and more than that, at the strange man next to him, made him cower. There was something about the man, something in his presence, that was intimidating, even to Gollum, who respected no one besides those who frightened him. It wasn't malevolent as it had been with Him, but it was powerful, and frightening. Moreover, each time the man's eyes feel upon him, the creature had the disturbing sensation that he knew, that he could see everything in him.

And Gollum didn't like it.

So the creature quickly turned around. Even if he had to follow the nasty elf to get away from te frightening man, he'd rather do that than stay here, under the scrutiny of the man.

So Aragorn was left with the man, whom the soldier had presented as Odysseus. The ranger watched Gollum leave, and when the creature was far enough that he couldn't see more of him than a point, he sighed.

“After such a journey, a few days of rest can only be good for you. And as you are supposed to see the Elvenking, maybe we'd better be on our way to the Halls.”

The man's voice startled Aragorn, who looked at him in surprise. Of course, he had seen the resemblance, but even the voice? Wasn't it bit too much?

The two started walking towards the Halls nonetheless, but Odysseus was observing the ranger quite disturbingly. To Aragorn, it felt almost like when Galadriel had first laid her gaze on him, so many years before. If the dúnadan hadn't known any better, he might have thought this Odysseus to be one such as the Istari. He certainly had the presence, if anything.

Aragorn decided to inform himself as they walked in silence, sometimes greeted by, sometimes greeting a passing elf. If the man didn't want to answer, after all, he'd just ignore his questions.

“You are strangely similar to a man I met not so long ago, Odysseus.”

A surprised, but amused smile appeared on the man's face.

“Am I?”

“You are. Not only do you share a voice, but you also share a face and a body, it would seem. You look slightly older than this man, true, his hair are long and straight, and he sports a beard shorter than yours, but aside from that, you two are identical. Any idea why this is?”

“Certainly not. I have arrived in these lands only a month ago, and I do not know of any mortal who looks like I do. However, I have been told I took much after one of my ancestors...”

The man finished his sentence almost in a whisper, a fleeting smile on his face, as if he was remembering something most amusing.

Aragorn noted this strange conversation in a corner of his mind, with the odd feeling that it would matter later on. Then the discussion went on quietly, as the ranger asked how Odysseus was liking Eryn Galen, and if the elves weren't too much of a shock to him. Apparently they weren't, for the man only laughed a bit at the idea that some mortals could find the immortals unsettling.

But not long before they reached the entrace to the Halls of Thranduil, Odysseus stopped on his tracks, suddenly thinking of the Elvenprince and his lookalikes. The time travelers had lived in the Halls for more than a month, now, and everyone had gotten used to the strange similarities between the five, but the ranger knew nothing of the situation...

And while it could be amusing to witness his discovery of the five lookalikes, the ithacan king felt the man deserved, at least, a warning.

Aragorn had stopped too, and was looking at him with an interrogating look on his face.

“Is something the matter?”

“I only thought you might use a warning, especially if you got to know the Elvenprince, Legolas Thranduilion, as well as your being on speaking terms with his father seems to indicate. Some of the king's other guests will surely be quite a suprise to you, if you meet.”

“What do you mean?”

Odysseus only smiled mysteriously. No need to kill all the fun, was there?

The ithacan king went back to walking, politely refusing to say any more. Soon, the two men entered the Halls of Thranduil, and not long after that, they stumbled upon Sibylla, Anamaria and Elizabeth, who were talking quietly amongst themselves, turned towards the other side of the corridor.

Hearing footsteps, Elizabeth turned around, and immediately recognized Odysseus, though she didn't know the man who was with him. Odd, considering they were in an elven underground castle.

Then again, the man surely thought the same thing, for it was at least the fourth mortal he met this day.

The King of Ithaca noticed the worried look on the women's face, and frowned.

“Is something the matter?”

Sibylla made a discret gesture towards the corridor behind them, glancing along as she did so.

“We were with Cassandra and Paris when a soldier came by with some sort of creature attached to a chain, and she... Cassandra looked at the being, and started shivering. Soon after that, she fainted, and the creature shrieked, pulling on the chain as if to get away from her. Paris took his sister to her room, and the soldier apologized for the inconvenience, seemingly worried.”

Anamaria confirmed the story, saying they wanted to go and see if the trojan princess was alright, but couldn't bring themselves to do so this soon, having figured that Paris might want some time to take care of Cassandra.

Aragorn watched the discussion, perplexed about many things, taking in the dark woman's skin color, the rich and colorful clothes of the first woman who had spoken, and the aristocratic and sharp features of the blond woman who was still looking at him. Two of the three actually had weapons in hand, as if they were headed to the training field, and while the ranger had nothing against female fighters, he had rarely seen any amongst the Race of Men, who were not of the Dúnedains. Finally he excused himself, and made to leave, intent on speaking to Thranduil soon, so that he could rest afterwards.

But the blond woman's eyes never left him, as he walked away, and he could sense it.

There was something strange about these guests of the Elvenking, Aragorn was sure of it.

 

 

**Halls of Thranduil – Cassandra's room**

 

Paris sat directly on the floor, back against the wall, head in his hands, as he contemplated what to do about his sister's health. And as always, he found nothing.

After a good half of a hour of strong shivers and sweeting, Cassandra had fallen asleep, and here he was, desperate as to what to do. He feared for his sister even more so that, by his own idiocy, he had lost most of his family. He feared for his sister even more so that now, she was all he had, in this Time and place.

But there was nothing he could do.

By Apollo's gift, Cassandra could see glimpses of the futur, and she could sense the great powers in the world she evolved in. And it seemed that Middle-Earth still had many of these powers, from what she had told him.

The Elvenprince had figured out most of the powers she had been able to sense, even if sometimes the way she perceived them still puzzled him. Some of these powers, apparently, were the Istari, an order of wizards who might very well be disguised deities, even if they had never stated it publicly. Some were the great witches, as in all who were not of the Ainur but still wielded magical powers; one was an elven lady, and another an elven lord. Some others were even more Maiar, such as the one who had come to Arda on Zeus' orders, under the physical form of a giant eagle, or such as the traitorous Sauron, who was currently tormenting, even if unknowingly, Cassandra.

Better that way, still, than the Dark Lord knowing of his torture upon Paris' sister. As long as Sauron ignored the effect his mere existence had on her, she would be somewhat safe.

Because if Sauron learned of a mortal who could sense his powers, and even, sometimes, spy on his most vivid thoughts, who knew what would happen to Cassandra?

Once again, and it seemed to become something normal lately, Paris felt incredibly useless.

Why couldn't he be like the others? Like these people he looked so much like, but was nothing similar? Brian had a terrible character, but he could fight, even unarmed. William seemed a bit closed on himself, but he fought as he breathed. Balian always looked so calm, but he never faltered in combat. And Legolas... Legolas was an elf, perfect at mostly anything he tried to do.

Paris, him, could only use a bow. Yes, better than many did, but it was nothing to be proud of. As soon as his opponent closed the distance, not only was he useless, but he also lost all bravery.

He couldn't fight for those he cared about, and when it wasn't about fighting, he did not know what to do either.

With Cassandra it wasn't about fighting.

And he had no idea how to help her.

He was useless.

Paris wasn't sure how much time passed as he thought so, but at least one hour went by before he moved from this sitting position.

And that happened when his sister suddenly jerked awake, eyes wide open, respiration ragged.

The young Trojan jumped on his feet, and in one second he was at Cassandra's side, holding one of her hands in hope of calming her down.

The young woman's eyes eventually focused, and she looked at her brother as if she was seeing him for the first time ever. As if, until now, there had always been a veil separating them, preventing her from really seeing Paris. From really recognizing him for who he trully was.

Understanding had dawned upon Cassandra, and the princess was now staring at her brother, wondering why Apollo had finally decided to let her know the truth about Paris and the four others. Usually her visions and prophecies concerned only the future... No, it concerned what the actors of this future wanted to happen, and sometimes, what it might trigger that wasn't part of the plan.

Maybe it wasn't Apollo.

Maybe someone had been thinking so much about the five brothers lately, perhaps plotting to use them, perhaps not, that she had sensed the strong intent of that person. Of that power.

Cassandra shivered. It was obvious. The Dark Lord had been the one to call them all in this Time and place. Sauron was responsible for the brothers' reunion. And his plan to use William Turner, and, in truth, possibly the others, had certainly gone a bit awry when the orcs had failed in killing them... capturing for Turner, because this one simply couldn't be killed. It wouldn't be too far-fetched to think that as a consequence, the Dark Lord was strongly thinking about them, from time to time...

And that was why she had caught a glimpse of the truth about the five brothers.

It would have been more useful if it hadn't been about something that was already known, though. Because there was no way the Elvenking ignored the truth about his own sons. Of what Sauron wanted with them, though, Cassandra had seen naught.

“ _Are you alright!?”_

The trojan princess looked back at her brother, and nodded. She was still in shock with the truth, but she was not feeling so bad. She rose up from the bed with difficulty, and thought back to the last dream she had had, before waking up.

That dream had nothing to do with her brother.

Cassandra hesitated a moment, and then made her decision. If her visions of Thranduil Oropherion's past were true, the King of the Woodland Realm knew about her clairvoyance. Given what she knew of elves, and given what had happened lately, maybe he'd believe her. After all, the young woman couldn't sense the curse of disbelief weighting on her anymore.

She had to try and tell, at least.

“ _Paris, I'd like to speak with the Elvenking. Would you mind helping me to the bathroom?”_

Her visions were one thing when it was about unpredictability, but if there was one thing Cassandra knew she would never do, it was speaking to a king in such a disheveled state.

Paris agreed, a bit surprised by his sister's newfound confidence, and helped her to walk. Confident or not, Cassandra's knees were weak right now, and the trojan prince wouldn't bet she could actually walk on her own, for now at least.

Once alone in the bathing area of the guest rooms, Cassandra breathed deeply, remembering the words she had dreamt of, trying to calm down. Words spoken in her voice, but that she couldn't recall ever thinking, nor fathom ever saying, if not for a vision.

It was always that way. She'd see images and feel emotions that weren't hers when she sensed someone's thoughts, she'd have the impression of being welcomed, threatened, rejected sometimes, when she sensed someone's power, and she'd hear herself speak words which weren't hers when she sensed a possible fate.

The creature from that morning. It had been what had triggered the prophecy, she was certain.

The creature reeked of the Dark Lord's presence, because he was muffled in the fear of Sauron.

The creature would matter, of that she was certain. Of that there was no doubt, and she wasn't the only one to think so. Cassandra could not see the future, after all. She could only sense the various wills around her, and sometimes get a grip on the strongest.

The creature wanted something, and he would not let it go if he found it, not even for the Flaming eye who scared him so much.

The Dark Lord wanted something, and he certainly counted on the miserable creature to get to it.

Cassandra closed her eyes, and whispered the words she had heard herself speak in her last dream.

“ _He who seeks for the precious,_

_He whose mind is unconscious,_

_He who lost all liberty,_

_He whose life long went awry,_

_Pathetic and pitiful,_

_He might not be meaningful,_

_But for one who will not mend,_

_He still steps down at the end.”_

After what Cassandra washed herself in silence, thinking.

Thranduil might not do much, even if he believed her when she'd tell him about the prophecy. But the Elvenking could still make sure to keep an eye on the creature. And she needed to ask him if he knew of a way for her to make good use of the gift bestowed upon her by Apollo.

She could sense so much, and maybe, under the appropriate guidance, she could gather enough pieces of the puzzle.

She doubted anyone else in this world could claim to having a direct access into the Enemy's mind.

 

 

**Aragorn's room**

 

After having spoken to the Elvenking, the ranger had gone to take a well-deserved bath, eat something more than bread and salted meat, and sleep for the whole night... and half of the afternoon that had preceded.

So Aragorn woke up at dawn, unusually refreshed. He really had needed the rest.

He dressed, ate, and headed outside, to look at the rising sun from the great place above the underground castle. Apparently most people, elves as well as mortal guests, were still sleeping this morning, for he only crossed path with a charming elleth who reminded him a bit of Arwen. The memory of his beloved chased all somber thoughts from his mind right away, and when he reached the place, he had forgotten almost everything about the great, or terrible, your choice, destiny that supposedly awaited him. No Dark Lord clouded his thoughts, and a few children with pointed ears but no immortality even managed to slip into his musings.

Aragorn sat on a bench perfectly situated to look at the rising sun, and so he spent a few minutes, without really thinking of anything. Arwen's laugher sounded lightly in his mind, as the first rays of light passed above the dark trees of Eryn Galen and fell on his face.

The dúnadan shook his head sadly, knowing full well that there wasn't much chance of him ever marrying his beloved, not with Elrond's conditions. And the worst was that he couldn't really blame his foster father for his decision, because he understood that the half-elven lord already had issues knowing that his foster son would die one day... without adding into the mess the possiblity that his daughter could choose the same fate.

Aragorn eventually looked away from the sun, which was now high enough that its light was becoming hard to look at. And so his eyes fell on another bench, a bit further away, where someone else was sitting...

Sleeping, actually.

The ranger rose and walked over to the person, only to discover two things, one of which absolutely astounded him.

First of all, it was a man, and likely one of Thranduil's guests.

Second thing, Aragorn knew these features, and they did not belong onto a man's face.

This person, who slept innocently on a bench of the elven capital of Eryn Galen, this person looked just like Legolas.

Well... Almost. Aragorn had to concede that his skin wasn't as fair as the Elvenprince's, and that Legolas' hair certainly wasn't as brown as this man's. Legolas' hair was even very blond. Not as blond as his father's, perhaps, but very blond nonetheless. And there was the fact that, unlike Legolas, the stranger wasn't an elf. Meaning, no pointed ears, and no feint glow in the dark.

Still, the man's features were the Elvenprince's. Same jaw, same nose, same everything, actually. Feature for feature, this man was a mortal Legolas dipped into a bucket of brown paint.

The dúnadan's mind mused back to the strange comments of this man, Odysseus, and to the words of the Elvenking, from the day before.

More than a bit shocked, the ranger just stood there, wondering about this strange set of events. Now the world not only had twins who weren't twins in Boromir of Gondor and this Odysseus, but also in Legolas Thranduillion, an elf, and this man, whoever he was. The world was decidedly becoming... interesting.

Steps sounded behind him, and Aragorn turned around to see the brightly clothed woman from the day before walking towards him. She had a calm smile on her face, as if she could guess what his surprise was about.

The ranger wouldn't be surprised if she could. She had that air about her, as if no words were ever needed for her to understand.

The woman sat down next to the man, a gentle, caring look taking over her features. Her grey eyes seemed a bit sad, though, but maybe it was because of the slight shadows under them. Her skin was pale. Overall, she reminded him of the most noble women in Minas Tirith.

“The rumors are that my husband, as well as the three others, may have a very distant elven ancestor, with possible family ties to the Elvenprince.”

Aragorn didn't miss the way the woman's lips were slightly pulled up, as if she knew better than to believe the rumors, and also as if she knew the actual reason for her husband's resemblance to Legolas Thranduillion... but that she wouldn't tell.

The ranger also noticed, but only as he passed the sentence back again in his thoughts, that the man apparently wasn't the only one to have an uncanny likeness to the Elvenprince.

“The three others?”

The woman smiled, apparently amused.

“I am Sibylla, and this sleeping gentleman here is my husband, Balian. You already met Odysseus, I believe, and you've seen Anamaria and Elizabeth Swann, with whom I should probably mention James Norrington. Elizabeth is William Turner's beloved, and the young man looks very much like Balian and the Elvenprince, with only a large scar over his heart and hair much messier than the two to distinguish him from my husband. You've heard of Cassandra and Paris, siblings, but you haven't seen them. Paris is another copy of Balian, Turner and the Elvenprince, if not for his slightly tanner skin and his wavy hair. And finally, there is Brian Epkeen, who seems to be a bit older than the four. If you are, as I suspect, another guest of the Elvenking, it will not be long before you meet them all. I thought a warning was in order, considering...”

And she gestured to the face of her husband, whom continued to sleep.

Quite baffled with the possibility of having five Legolas around, Aragorn kept silent for a moment, before presenting himself as Strider. Sibylla had told him her name, it was only correct to give her, if not his actual name, at least something by which calling him.

Sibylla only laughed lightly at the alias, and moved onto the task of waking up Balian, who had once again fallen asleep watching the stars. It was already the third time this month. Maybe she ought to speak to him about it.

Balian woke up to the sight of his wife with a smile, before his face grew surprised at the man standing behind her. He asked Sibylla in French who he was, and wasn't particularly disturbed by the alias she gave him, also translated into _“Grands-pas”_. He could understand the need for secrecy, or the will not to divulge too much to strangers. Balian was a quiet man, and no one would ever pretend otherwise. He wasn't going to blame someone for acting just as he did.

The former Lord of Ibelin tried his best to present himself in Westron, even if he guessed Sibylla had already done that much as he had been sleeping. His mastery of the language still wasn't good enough for him to hold a conversation, but he was making progress. He had to, when only four other people in the whole and actual world could understand his mother tongue.

Aragorn hid his surprise at the man's sloppy Westron, and they all made their way back to the Halls. The ranger observed discreetly the couple, in wonder as to this language he had never head before, despite all his travels, when the two people who spoke it looked definitely not like Easterlings or Southrons. They seemed to be cultivated people, her more than him, and also people of standing...

He hoped Thranduil knew what he was doing, taking in those rather suspicious people.

Because the whole situation surely was suspicious. So far, he had only met some of the Elvenking's guests, and they didn't seem evil in any way. The ranger would have a difficult time believing them agents of the Enemy, for example. But.

Because there was a but.

They were too strange not to be dubious, and yet they weren't. They didn't seem to be from anywhere in Arda, truth to be told, but from where else could mortals come? And why did four of them resemble Legolas so much?

Maybe he was overthinking things. But Aragorn found it very dubious, that given the circumstances, these people weren't suspicious at all. They seemed to have simply... adapted.

People didn't adapt to such circumstances in one month.

They entered the Halls, and Aragorn went his way to the cave where the Elvenking's throne was, half-hoping to find Thranduil here, and maybe to hint at the oddity of the situation, half-dreading the way he'd have to do that. These strangers were the king's guests... He couldn't just accuse them of ill intent, and he could even less make a little by-the-way comment about their similarities to the Elvenprince...

It just didn't work like that.

Aragorn found Thranduil and Legolas, discussing with a young woman whose face was pale as if in sickness, exactly where he had hoped to speak to the Elvenking... but alone.

He hesitated, but apparently Legolas spotted him, and gestured for him to come over. So the ranger crossed the bridge between himself and the platform where the throne was. He wondered why exactly Thranduil might want him here, when he was already conversing with someone else...

Someone else, who was mortal.

One of the Elvenking's mysterious guests, in other words. And if Sibylla's word was to be trusted, possibly Cassandra, the sister of one of the Legolas lookalikes, as Aragorn couldn't remember her, and he had already met, even if briefly, the three other women.

The dúnadan frowned, as he thought back to what the women from the day before had said, about this Cassandra and Gollum. What had caused such reactions, from both of them?

He turned around the staircase leading to the throne, but stopped on his tracks. Right in front of him was standing a man he hadn't been able to see before, hidden by a pillar. And this man looked much like Legolas indeed, even if his coloring was darker and browner, even if his hair was wavy and shorter.

Paris, Cassandra's sister, the ranger guessed. It made sense for the young man to be with his sister as she talked to the Elvenking, after all. More sense, if anything, than all he had learned so far about this peculiar case.

The two young mortals were presented by Legolas to his longtime friend, and Aragorn couldn't help but notice the worried look in Paris' eyes as he looked at his sister, who seemed frail and weak next to the brilliance of the two royals.

Cassandra was shorter than her brother by several inches, and less noticeable than Paris. Her features, while pleasant, were in no way outstanding. Her hair was a dark brown, long and wavy, and fell around her pale face like a dark curtain separating her from the world, with a few strands tied back behind her head as if they were lanyards. There was something in her expression, in the way her mouth didn't seem used to smile, that led Aragorn to feel she had seen more than one could be confortable with. Under long lashes, her dark grey eyes were watching him, and there was sadness in that gaze.

Sadness, but determination, too.

Aragorn reported his attention onto Thranduil, though he didn't let either of the siblings out of his sight.

The Elvenking did not look particularly perturbed by the strange similarities between his own son and the young mortal who stood only a few feet away. In fact, the ranger was almost sure there was some king of tenderness in the elf's eyes...

Which was odd, considering that Thranduil was... well, Thranduil. The Elvenking wasn't particularly known for wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Or, according to the dwarves, for having a heart at all. Then again, dwarves usually mistrusted elves, when they didn't outright hate them. So it could be that their judgement was slightly biaised.

Only slightly, of course.

The Elvenking locked eyes with the dúnadan. His gaze was back to normal, not really mean, but hard, and cold enough to distinguish him from the usual elf. Aragorn knew that he had refused to sail, even after his wife's death, for an unknown reason. He wondered if maybe that was why the Elvenking seemed so different, for an elf. He wasn't the only one who stayed behind for a time... but he surely was the only one to have stayed in Arda for so long after such a tragedy.

“Strider, this young woman here has a rather strong gift of... clairvoyance. It is so strong that she sometimes find herself close from being spotted by the Enemy. But she knows not how to use it, and it endangers her.”

Aragorn looked with surprise to Cassandra. It wasn't the first time he met someone with the sight, far from it, as the Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond, and Lord Glorfindel to some extent, shared a similar gift, but it was the first time he encountered a mortal with such a power. For a moment he thought that maybe the Elvenking was in the wrong, or worse, maybe he was being deceived, and this Cassandra was nothing else than a spy of the Dark Lord, an agent destined to create disorder amongst the Free people.

But Thranduil wasn't one to be easily fooled. And he seemed sure of himself.

Maybe, then, maybe there was actually more to the young woman's identity than the ranger knew, but not more than the Elvenking himself knew. Maybe Aragorn was the one to whom not everything was being said.

This possibility allowed him to relax a bit.

Thranduil, noticing the change in the dúnadan's stance, continued.

“I wondered if you would be so kind as to show her, as well as a few others, to Imladris, if this happened to be your next destination? Lord Elrond's realm is protected by his powers as well as by Vilya; it could be that it would protect her from sensing Sauron's presence, as she does even in this castle.”

The ranger had to refrain his eyes from widening on the spot, as he finally understood why the young woman looked so feeble, so... ill. If she really couldn't control her power, and as a consequence couldn't refuse to sense the fallen Maia's presence, she was indeed in danger, not only of being discovered by the Enemy, but simply of dying.

Sauron's whole being had been corrupted by Morgoth's evilness, and for several thousands of years already, he had become nothing more than the definition of destruction.

Cassandra was being destroyed from the inside.

“And her being in Imladris would have the added benefit of placing her near two elves also gifted with clairvoyance. I suppose Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel would not refuse to help her in controlling her gift.”

Aragorn paused there, his eyes scanning the two other mortals on the throne's platform.

Finally, he turned back to the Elvenking, his answer now firmly decided.

“I see no reason to refuse, King Thranduil. If it agrees with your guests, we will depart in three days, the time for me to get some more rest, and for them to prepare leaving the Halls.”

Something flickered in the Elvenking's eyes, but it disappeared so quikly Aragorn wasn't sure about its nature. If asked, he would say grief, or maybe reluctance, but about what? He had no idea.

Thranduil rose from his throne.

“Perfect. Legolas, if you would present our other guests to Strider? I feel it would be better for them to accompany Paris and Cassandra, as Elrond is more likely to have answers to their situation than I am.”

The Elvenprince's face moved into shock, but his father only shook his head slightly as he made his way out of the platform. Thranduil wasn't sure why, but he felt it was better that way... Even if it meant being parted from his sons.

Legolas said nothing, but thought no less. He couldn't understand why his father would want his brothers out of the kingdom, but he was observant enough to notice it did not please Thranduil at all. The Elvenking was only doing what had to be done.

So the Elvenprince turned to his old friend, and he, Aragorn, Paris and Cassandra walked to the guest rooms, in a part that wasn't the same as where the ranger usually stayed... and that was the part where the time travelers were staying.

Aragorn, feeling that he was finally going to meet all the Elvenking's guests, knew not what to think. His encounters with some of them, so far, had been quite unnerving. And Thranduil had spoken of a... “situation”, as if there was something more to it than them being simple guests of the king.

Which was just what he had thought at first, or at least, as soon as he had learned that four of them shared Legolas' features.

Still, the ranger felt less suspicious of them, now that Thranduil had confirmed there was actually something about them. Because if the Elvenking knew of it, and yet agreed to their presence, even offering them his help, it surely meant that, as unusual as their circumstances were, they were not dubious circumstances.

Walking behind the elf and the dúnadan, Paris and Cassandra shared a glance.

The two siblings were wondering why the Elvenking, as well as Legolas, hadn't given them the man's true name. It wasn't as if they knew much of Middle-Earth, anyway, despite all that they had learned during the past month. They surely had not learned by heart the names of all the important people of this Age.

There obviously was a secret behind this man's identity, because, unless his mother had had terrible ideas, “Strider” was definitely not his true name.

Maybe the Elvenking was simply worried that they would end up telling someone who wasn't supposed to know, if he had presented Strider as the man should have been. The elven monarch could obviously not tell them who the man whas, and why he couldn't tell, so it was a fair worry...

The four arrived to the nearest common room to where the time travelers stayed, and had the surprise to find all of them resting in the room... except Paris and Cassandra who were, obviously, just behind Aragorn.

The ranger's eyes slided over the room, and he had to admit these people were not Thranduil's usual guests.

In fact, they weren't usual by any means.

 

 

**The capital – Beginning of the forest path**

 

The travelers were all present, with their packs and the horses they had been offered, waiting for Strider to declare that they were going. The ranger had been talking with the Elvenking for ten good minutes, possibly about the path they would take once they'd leave the forest.

Legolas was here too, speaking softly with Brian, who was still frowning as he stared at the daggers he had been offered by the Elvenprince the evening before, wondering what exactly he had done to be gifted something. The fact that he was obviously good at knife fighting didn't seem to be enough of a reason to him, and Legolas wasn't going to tell him the true reason, so Brian frowned.

A few other elves had come too, especially the children Anamaria had spent time playing with, and the smiths who were discussing with Balian and Will about the first one's newest sword. They had spent quite some time perfecting it, for the elves truly wished to make it as good as an elven sword, but the man had, unsurprisingly, wished for it not to be too different from the original Sword of Ibelin. They could understand that.

Finally, Aragorn and Thranduil turned to look at the travelers, one with thoughts of the upcoming journey in his head, the other with some displeasure at letting his children go.

But Thranduil wasn't blind. He could see the time travelers getting worried with the fact they weren't in their Time. He also knew Brian better than the man thought, and there was no doubt the detective would not tolerate being iddle much longer. The black woman and the Navy officer were starting to feel odd, as they spent more time afar from their kind and amongst immortals. Cassandra really needed to speak with Elrond, and Paris would follow her anywhere. The king of Ithaca was wise and patient, but he ached to see his wife once again, and Thranduil could relate.

Only Balian and his wife, and Will and Elizabeth, were not affected by the long stay in a different time. Elizabeth, because what she had to return to was a time of war, Will because he cared only about being with his loved one once again, Sibylla and Balian because they only really had each other.

It was better to let them leave. After all, the Elvenking already knew they would go back to their times, at some point. Elizabeth Swann's marriage was enough of a proof.

Eventually Aragorn called for the travelers' attention, and they departed.

Thranduil and Legolas were the last one to leave, and when they did, the two elves didn't imediately go back to the Halls, or even into the city. They wandered a bit in the forest, under the watchful eyes of elven guards.

“ _Are you alright, ada?”_

Thranduil turned to look at his son, and smiled faintly.

“I am not sure of that, Legolas, but it had to be done. I... I can't grow more attached than I already am. Even if they weren't meant to go back to when they come, only Inasthol would stay with us until the end of time. The Valar have already granted me more than I have ever dared to hope for, in allowing me to at least meet them.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, before Thranduil spoke again.

“ _Tell me, iôn-nin. Tell me of the time you've spent with them.”_

And Legolas complied.

 

 

**The Forest – Forest Path**

 

When Aragorn first allowed them to make camp, the night wasn't yet completely here. The ranger knew Mirkwood too much not to realize that, unless you were elves, it was no use trying to walk in the dark of the forest during the night. Literally nothing could be seen, once the light of the day failed to illuminate the path. The light of the stars was far from enough to get past the heavy leaves of Mirkwood.

The travel, so far, hadn't been too difficult. Of course, they couldn't use the horses yet, so they had to lead them while walking, but they would need the mounts once they would be clear of Eryn Lasgalen. And at least, they didn't have to carry their packages themselves.

There had also been two spiders attacks, but nothing too difficult to handle. The first time, they had been close enough to the capital for soldiers to be posted nearby, and the spiders had not lasted two minutes. The second time, the dúnadan, William Turner, Balian of Ibelin, Odysseus of Ithaca, James Norrington, Brian Epkeen, Elizabeth Swann and Anamaria had wiped out the monsters in five minutes. Aragorn was quite impressed with the skills he had seen, so far. He even had to admit that Turner was downright frightening with his strange blade.

Not that he hadn't felt that way beforehand.

The travelers settled for dinner around a campfire, barely out of the actual path. Epkeen and Anamaria were handling the food, to everyone's astonishment. When asked, the two had simply scowled, and now, no one dared to object.

And apparently, it was the good choice to do. Except Paris, who had had the bad idea to point out that men weren't supposed to cook, the travelers were quite content with their meal. Aragorn decided to allow them a little time before going to sleep, even if it wasn't a pleasure trip. They knew each other, but he didn't know them. As the leader of their party, it wasn't something he felt comfortable with.

He had not had much time to get to know them during the last three days, after all. Resting had been his priority, at the time.

As they sat before the campfire, the ranger asked them if they'd mind presenting themselves, at least so much that he could decide how to react if somehing happened. What they honestly thought of their skills, of their qualities, of their flaws.

The others hesitated for an instant, and Brian Epkeen was the first to speak, as if to get rid of a chore.

“Brian Epkeen. Eng... Westron is my mother tongue, but I can somehow speak those three over there's language if needed, and I know about two words in Sindarin and French, Balian's and Sibylla's language. I used to be work as someone who investigates any breaking of the law. I can obey an order, but I won't hesitate to let you know if I think it stupid. I don't like killing, but I can do it, rather well at that, when needed. Oh, and never put a bow in my hands. If there is one weapon I can't handle, it's a bow.”

Aragorn nodded. The man had confirmed what he already thought of him: dangerous and sullen, but good nonetheless.

James Norrington was the next one to speak.

“My name is James Norrington. I used to be a naval officer. Westron is my mother tongue, and I know French, Balian of Ibelin's language, well enough to discuss. I can obey if needed, but I am more used to be the one in command. My pride is one of my biggest flaws, and I'd rather stay clear of any alcoholic beverage. I fight my best with a short sword, but I can do with any kind of sword. My last wound might prove to be a problem, though, even if it is mostly healed.”

The words had apparently been difficult to say for the man, but Aragorn could tell he was being honest, if only because he had confessed to being weak about drinking, and prideful. Not everyone would have given their flaws away like that.

This one he could use, he thought, if they were divided during an attack. Norrington was a former officer, after all. He knew not only how to fight, but also how to battle.

The ranger decided to ask the man about this wound of his later on.

The black woman who reminded the dúnadan much of the Southrons spoke then.

“Anamaria. I do well with any kind of weapon, and I particularly dislike being attacked for no reason. I'll do anything to stay alive in a fight, but I am not used to having... comrades. No one ever looked out for me.”

Meaning, not much trust, and a possible tendency to fight on her own. Aragorn had noticed her fiery personality before, and wasn't surprised.

His eyes moved to Elizabeth Swann, who wore some good combat clothing, of a kind he had never seen before.

“Elizabeth Swann is my name. I don't take orders well, when they are from someone who hasn't proved to be worthy of command, and I would do anything for my freedom, or for Will. I know how to fight, but also how to behave, for I am the daughter of a governor. I hate treason, and have no qualms about ending the ones who threaten me or those I care for.”

Well, if that wasn't a fiery one too... Between her and the black woman called Anamaria, Aragorn felt the orcs'd better stay clear of the party if they wished to keep their heads. Still, the ranger was certain she would be useful, if anything happened. She felt like someone he could count on, as long as she wasn't wronged.

As his wife ended her presentation, William Turner was the next to speak. Aragorn felt there was something untold about the two's relationship, but they certainly behaved like husband and wife.

Maybe he'd know more one day. It wasn't the time to ask yet.

“William Turner, blacksmith. I can use anything with a blade as a weapon, or anything found in a smithy for the matter. I can obey orders, but Elizabeth and my promises will always be my priority.”

The look Anamaria and James Norrington gave the man told enough of what they thought of that statement. Apparently they had run into a few situations where they had witnessed the truth of it more than once.

Good. A man true to his word could not be a bad person, if he could easily be trapped by threachery.

It almost allowed Aragorn to forget the feeling of dread he had had the very first time his eyes had fallen upon the man. Almost.

It had been a strange moment, there in the common room for the guests of the Halls of Thranduil, when the dúnadan had looked around at the people who would accompany on his next trip to Imladris. It had been a strange moment, because none of the people present had been banal, and yet four stood out. Four had Legolas' features, but in a brown version of some sort, and while being easily told from one another. And one had felt so wrong, and yet not bad, one had had eyes so sad and cold, as he had looked towards the ranger, that Aragorn had shivered.

There was something about William Turner, that made him more than a simple mortal, and yet not so much that it was immediately obvious to anyone.

The dúnadan wasn't anyone, and had seen it.

Thranduil had refused to tell him anything, but the Elvenking had not hidden that he knew of it.

The ranger pushed the thoughts aside, and turned a bit to look at the next one who would talk.

“Balian of Ibelin. My... Westron is not perfect. I am a ...smith, but I have been a... knight in the past. Riding and sword-fighting, I can do. I... believe I am calm and cool-headed.”

The man looked hesitantly to his wife, who nodded. Despite his hesitations over some words, he had spoken well enough.

Balian of Ibelin, to say the truth, reminded the ranger of himself. There was something about him, just something. Aragorn wasn't sure what, but it was here.

They just felt... alike.

And he was quite certain the man felt the same about him, because their eyes met, and there was comprehension.

Just that. True comprehension. Aragorn wasn't used to this feeling, to this look in their eyes, and for once he felt relieved. Even from being who he secretly was.

Balian's wife was the next one to speak, an amused smile on her lips. She could see it, the resemblance, and it amused her to no end. She even had a feeling that what Strider and what Balian had not said about themselves was somehow similar a secret.

Now, knowing that Balian had been a lord, what did it say about this “Strider”?

“Sibylla of Jerusalem. Having been born a noblewoman, I can ride, but I know next to nothing about fighting, I fear. I don't fear blood and death for all that, because my country has been at war for many years, and my brother had a disease since the first years of his life that eventually claimed him. I know to stay out of reach if a battle happens.”

The first one not to be a fighter in the party, but such a thing was to be expected. It was even a surprise that half of the women could actually fight, Aragorn mused, and he was grateful for that. The less there were to protect during a fight, the better it was for them.

And she appeared to be level-headed. Sibylla of Jerusalem could surely take the lead amongst the non-fighters, if it came to it.

The only ones left were the ones with whom Aragorn had had something of a conversation during the last days... Those who spoke a strange language when they were amongst themselves.

“Odysseus of Ithaca. People tend to agree that I am rather clever, cunning even, but with no ill intentions. Following orders is not a problem for me, as long as they are well-thought. I use my sword well, and can make use of a bow, but it isn't my weapon of choice.”

The ranger didn't fail to notice the looks the man had gotten when he had spoken of cleverness or cunning, as if the others were thinking there was no questionning it, Odysseus of Ithaca wasn't simply clever or cunning, but more of a genius.

This one would most likely not be a problem.

“Paris of Troy. I am bad at fighting, to say the truth, unless it is with a bow. There I have some... skills. I think I am too... naive, and I have troubles with blood. But I am... willing to improve.”

The young man looked a bit sheepish as he spoke, but there was honesty in his eyes. Aragorn only hoped it would not go to waste, and that there was something to do with this willingness. He'd have to test the youth on his archery skills, though. It was obvious, from his tone of voice, that Paris of Troy wasn't yet confortable with Westron, and had not succeeded in relaying his exact meaning.

Only cassandra was left.

“I am Cassandra of Troy. I can ride, but I cannot fight. And I... panick... easily. I am sorry.”

Well, at least she was honest. And the ranger could see that, if things called for it, her brother would do what he could to protect her.

If the young man was even a good enough bowman, he would give the others enough time to save them. The best would be to put him and his sister under Sibylla's ruling, while the fighters would get rid of the attackers.

Aragorn looked once again at each person in their odd party. He appreciated the quality of the group, if anything. He could have wound up with way worse. This time, only three couldn't really defend themselves, and they had three archers including himself. From the little he had seen against the spiders, all the others were skilled with a blade, though he did not know how they'd do against orcs or men.

He had already wound up with way worse in the past.

“My name is mine to keep, but you can call me Strider. I am a ranger, used to living on the roads, dealing with monsters, and getting rid of bandits. I can listen to complaints, but I will not suffer any during a fight. I expect you to obey in case of immediate danger, and to at least be civil if you disagree during another time.”

The travelers looked at him for a time, but Aragorn had nothing else to say. He'd answer if they asked. Or maybe he wouldn't, depending on the question. But he would not be the one to speak first.

James Norrington, Brian Epkeen, Anamaria and Sibylla seemed to be content with the boundaries he had fixed. Odysseus, Balian and Cassandra seemed alright with his leadership, but they kept looking at him for some time. Elizabeth Swann and Paris seemed a bit doubtful, but not of his capacities, so it was something at least. William Turner let nothing to be seen about his opinion on the matter, his attention already back onto his wife.

After half an hour, the ranger decided it was enough, and asked them to go to sleep, once they had established turns as watchmen. They had to leave early the next day, if they didn't want to lengthen their journey already. Brian grumbled a bit, and Anamaria sent him a look that stated clearly she was obeying only because he was right, and not because he had any authority over her.

Again, Aragorn had seen worse in his years of travelling the unwelcoming lands of Arda. If the elves usually appreciated him, for they knew the role of the rangers in the peace of the lands, it wasn't always so with the dwarves and the children of men. Rangers tended to look much like bandits, because they seldom had the money to afford new clothes, and the old clothes suffered often of encounters with actual bandits. Rangers were rarely welcome into towns.

These people, at least, weren't judging him on his looks. The dúnadan couldn't know that, of course, for he didn't know them well enough, but most had seen worse than him, or were wise enough not to judge. Considering that Elizabeth was Pirate King, she couldn't exactly complain, and James, who would have been one to be difficult to deal with in the past, now knew how easily the mighty could fall.

Aragorn was the first one to stay up and watch over the camp, looking out for spiders or any other kind of trouble. After him, Odysseus would take over. Then, William, Balian, and finally James.

Of course, Will did not sleep of the night. Aragorn was too busy with the outside of their camp to notice, but the immortal man didn't even close his eyes this night. He felt that, now that they had left elven grounds, the nightmares would come back, even with Elizabeth being with him.

And maybe it was only a feeling, but he would not risk her discovering the truth. Getting a few hours of sleep, when he did not need it, wasn't worth the risk. He had already slept, during the past months, more than during the past century, after all.

 

 

**Halls of Thranduil**

 

Twelve days had passed since the time travelers' departure, and life had gone back to normal for Thranduil and Legolas. The Elvenking did not spend much more time than usual with his son, busy with state affairs and, even if he never said it out loud, with anger at himself for having suggested to his other sons that they should go to Imladris. The Elvenprince had gone back to haunting patrols and beheading orcs, trying not to think too much about his training sessions with Brian, the nights under the stars with Balian, the discussions with William about all the things his brother couldn't tell Elizabeth, or the times when he comforted Paris.

Back to normal, almost. No elf had missed the way father and son seemed to be a bit closer than before, and some had even noticed how they would sometimes dine together, and speak quietly, a look of vague nostalgia on their faces. The first thing made them smile, and the second thing made them worry.

They could sense a war coming closer, and the budding sadness in the two royals could not be a good omen. And while many of them were already considering sailing to the West, for it was clear that time was growing short for the First Borns, they still hoped Thranduil would wait some more time before doing as much. Most of the elves of Eryn Galen were nandor, after all, and a good number would not go to Valinor... or, at least, they wouldn't during their first lifetime. They would stay in Arda until they consumed themselves, and end up in the Halls of Mandos, to wait for a few thousands of years and then walk into Valinor.

Thranduil Oropherion and his son were sindar. They were meant to sail for the West, if they weren't killed before that. Still, the people of Greenwood the Great hoped they'd still have their king to guide them during the last war elves would witness in Arda.

But for now, the royals seemed to be... elsewhere.

In another company would have been more accurate, in fact, because they weren't daydreaming about Aman, but that they were with the other members of their family. Four brothers, especially, who by now were possibly crossing the plains between the forest and the Misty Mountains... If nothing too gruesome had happened to them.

Only thinking about the possibility that maybe his sons had been stopped, attacked, slaughtered by a band of orcs or by some rabid wolves made the Elvenking grit his teeth. The fact that the despicable creature Aragorn had brought to them had not stopped whimpering for the last ten hours, and could be heard in half of the Halls, was not helping.

Thranduil understood the reasons why they couldn't let Gollum go. In fact, he didn't even resent the ranger for having left that... thing in his kingdom, considering said ranger was now doing him a favor, and couldn't really keep the dratted creature with him for the journey. Thranduil would have objected to having this Gollum anywhere near his estranged sons in the wild, if Aragorn had planned to take the thing with him, anyway.

If what the guards had told him was true, there was no doubt Gollum had spent some time in Mordor, in one of Sauron's prison... in Minas Morgul. The creature would scream in his sleep from time to time, and speak of a lidless eye... The elves couldn't let him go, not now, not as long as they had no idea how the thing had escaped in the first place, because no one, and certainly not this creature, escaped the Dark Lord's fortresses. If Gollum had gotten out...

There was no telling if he had escaped or had been allowed out.

But the elf would like to have one complete night of sleep, some time in the future. Just one.

Turning to the guard nearest to him, the Elvenking ordered for the creature to be allowed some time roaming the trees, from this day on. This couldn't go on any longer. When the creature wasn't whimpering, he was screaming, and when he wasn't screaming, he was cursing. Since the thing had been brought to the jail, there hadn't been more than one hour of silence in the Halls.

And Thranduil couldn't bear it anymore.

If to end this, he had to allow the creature out, with a few guards of course, so be it.

There was enough to worry about, his sons, the upcoming war, the skirmishes in the forest, Sauron, Dol Guldur, to add the screams of a wannabe orcish hobbit on top of it. If only the thing had been useful, and had given them one or two pieces of informations about the Dark Lord's schemes...

But no. Gollum would only scream, and curse, and whimper, and from time to time, speak of the great eye, of the dark wraiths, or of a shadow that the elven guards couldn't relate to anything they knew about Sauron's army. It was all the more strange, as the name the creature gave it was definitely in sindarin, as if he had heard it in Dol Guldur, without knowing what it meant.

But why would anyone speak sindarin in Dol Guldur? Sauron never left Barad-dûr these days, as if he was waiting for his Ring to get back to him before risking his somewhat new body, and even if it had been him speaking so, it wasn't as if there was anyone to whom he could speak in sindarin...

Unless the Enemy had captured one or several elves.

The thought made Thranduil shudder, and the Elvenking headed back to his rooms. He certainly hoped it wasn't the case, for nothing could be worse than being Sauron's prisoner, short of being Morgoth's. And Morgoth was gone, jailed into the Nameless Void. Meaning, there was nothing worse than being Sauron's prisoner.

If only Gollum had been able to say something more about this “ dúath”...

 

 

**Misty Mountains**

 

Aragorn and the other travelers had sent around twenty orcs to their early graves, not that orcs had the custom of burrying their dead into graves, but all the same, and even considering the things surely did not have customs at all, but that's not the point, as well as some other monsters, by now. Most of these had in fact been killed by William, who had an uncanny gift with sneaking behind anyone trying to sneak on them... and get rid of the nuisance before anyone was even aware that it had been there. When asked, the blacksmith would simply say he had been out for a walk, or attending his earthly needs, or...

The truth was, of course, that Will simply appeared behind the enemy, and beheaded them swiftly, but he couldn't just say that to the others. After all, they still didn't know who he truly was... Except Brian, but that, the former captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ did not know.

As to how he pinpointed the nuisances, it was another story... and a mystery. It wasn't as if he was frequently teleporting to a higher point to search for enemies when people weren't looking at him. Not at all.

Aragorn had made a point not to rest in the caves near the entrance of Goblin-town, for they never knew which ones were truly dangerous. He didn't want to live the same adventure as Bilbo Baggins, thank you very much, and when the others had asked why, they had agreed with him. They did not want to see any more goblins and orcs than necessary.

The ranger was now watching Will with more attention than before, wondering about the mysteries of the man, keeping an eye for enemies, and being freaked out on a daily basis as he couldn't help but notice that the man never slept. Or maybe it was like Gandalf and the elves, and he slept with his eyes open? He did not know, and while he felt nothing malicious about William Turner, he was disturbed by his observations nonetheless.

Though, if the Legolas-brown-lookalikes were in fact from Aman, it could explain why they were so strange. Especially Turner, who seemed to have powers unknown to men. It didn't make sense, but it would explain some of the strangest things about them...

And if they weren't Maiar, then they at least had something to do with them, or even with the Valar. Maybe the Ainur had given them a mission to accomplish, or something like that. Something that would explain why they didn't feel like normal people.

The horses were huddled against the wall of stone this night, and the travelers were trying to get some sleep, despite the terrible cold of winter in the Misty Mountains, while Strider watched over them. So far it hadn't been as terrible as it could become, but Aragorn still happened to wonder why exatly Thranduil had suggested for his guests to cross the Mountains at this time of the year... until he remembered the reason they were even going to Imladris.

The ranger's eyes fell onto the sleeping form of Cassandra of Troy, and he worried once again.

Eryn Galen might not have been able to stop the whole presence of Sauron, but at least it had somewhat protected the young woman. Now, Cassandra had taken to shiver at all times, which had nothing to do with the cold, and the nightmares had become stronger, more frequent.

Often, at night, Aragorn would catch the open eyes of William Turner, and notice that they were turned towards the poor woman, trashing in her dreams.

It was during these moments that the dúnadan would be convinced that the blacksmith didn't actually sleep during the nights.

The days after, though, he had to revise that conviction, as the man never faltered in his walk, and didn't even seem tired.

That night, however, Cassandra jerked in her sleep, but did not awake. Still, Aragorn heard her mumble about a “dead” one, a “golden” one, and a “wraith” fighting next to a “river”. He frowned, thinking back to Thranduil's claim about her clairvoyance, and associating “golden” with an elf, possibly Glorfindel, “wraith” with either a barrow-wight or a ring-wraith, but there were too many rivers where it could happen, and he had no idea aout who this “dead” person could be... Though Glorfindel had been dead at some point, but if it was him, then who was the “golden”?

Someone else had heard the mumbling of the young woman, and to them, if the rest didn't make much sense, the part about a “dead” person was particularly unnerving. Will had the nagging suspicion it was about him.

After all, he was sure he was the most dead person still able to fight thereabouts.

Cassandra turned onto her left side, and a few other words escaped her lips. Those, however, were not heard by anyone, and as she wouldn't remember her nightmare this time, no one would ever know them.

Only stone could relay these words, and, as we all know, stone does not speak.

“...and a blade, not unlike the first, will touch the dead man and send him to Hades.”

 

 

**TA 3018, January**

 

**Near Imladris**

 

Crossing the Misty Mountains, even on the path, during winter had been a mistake, Aragorn would have grumbled to anyone who would have been foolish enough to ask. Of course, none of the travelers was enough of a fool to do so, and the ranger did not get to rant about the terrible idea.

It was a miracle that Paris and Sibylla were the only ones who did catch a cold, though.

Elizabeth silently handed a handerkief to the former queen of Jerusalem, as the woman sneezed in her hand. Sibylla's own tissues had already been mourned two days before.

Aragorn waited for them to arrive near a pleasant-looking clearing before he made them stop. The men and women shared a look, but descended from their horses and attached the mounts to the nearby trees. Then they joined the ranger, who had done as much, into the clearing.

To their surprise, Strider sat down in the grass, not even bothering to look at his sourroundings, as if the place was safe.

Which was probably the case, if he acted like this.

“We are almost arrived. I know you are tired, after this journey, and I think it better if I go first and inform the guards of our presence, even if it is more than probable that they already know of it. Take the time to rest here, maybe eat what is left of our provisions; we won't need them anymore. Nothing should attack you here, for we are near Lord Elrond's home, and already in his lands. If you stay vigilant, since no one really knows what may happen in these troubled times, nothing too grave should happen.”

The travelers shared various looks, from disbelieving to relieved, as it sunk in that they were almost there. No more walking / riding / agonizing under the evil thing that was snow!

“That is, if it is alright with you.”

“What if you don't come back?”

Everyone turned to look at Elizabeth in surprise, but the young woman had a point. While it was unlikely that Aragorn would get killed on his way to the elves, they never knew what could happen. He had said so himself only a minute before: these were troubled times.

“Wait until tomorrow, and establish watching turns. If I am not back by the morning, follow the road, and turn to the right at the first intersection, about one mile and a half ahead. You will be stopped by elven soldiers not long after that. State your business clearly, and that I went ahead. They'll accompany you to Imladris.”

Aragorn stayed a little, watching as they made camp, them he rode out of the clearing and back again onto the road. He turned to the right at the intersection, but wasn't stopped by the soldiers of Elrond, as they instantly recognized and greeted him. One of them offered to accompany him to the Last Homely House East of the Sea, but he refused with a smile. It wasn't as if he didn't know the way, and there weren't any real danger on this last part of the road.

As he rode nearer to his childhood home, Aragorn couldn't help but feel a bit heartsick.

Even if he loved the elven city from the bottom of his heart, even if he had spent most of his childhood there, even if it held nearly all his memories of his mother, even if Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir had been like family to him, there was a reason he had left.

The dúnadan didn't know how he would suffer seeing Arwen once again, and not break down at the thought she would never be his, despite their undying love for each other. Somehow, he'd make it, he knew that, because it happened each time he rode back into Imladris, but the heartache would not vanish for all that. He had made it several times in the past, and he would walk out of it as usual, but he still had no idea how he did it each time.

All he knew was that it always hurt.

Love was a cruel thing, after all.

Aragorn dismounted as he saw the first buildings of the elven city of Imladris, also known as Rivendell by the mortals, and by the time he reached it, two elves were there, waiting for him. Lindir informed him that Lord Elrond was in his study, and aware of his arrival, while Figw... wait, no, why was it that the ranger could never remember his true name, already?, while the other elf took his horse to the stables.

Aragorn nodded, and went on his way to meet his foster father. He had some rather surprising things to tell Elrond, after all, and he thought it might be wise to warn the half-elf about his newest guests, before these guests actually came into Imladris.

Their circumstances were, if anything, peculiar, and quite shocking too, even for someone who, like the ranger, did not know much about said circumstances.

As he walked in a corridor, Aragorn heard a voice he knew well, and smiled a bit.

He turned a corner, and before his eyes, walking with a rather beautiful elleth, appeared Elrohir.

The half-elf's eyes lit up in recognition, and Elrohir excused himself from the young dame with flourish, making her laugh gently. Then the half-elf turned to his adoptive brother, a big smile on his face.

The ranger had an eyebrow raised, as he watched the elleth walk away lightly.

“ _I did not know you had already reached that stage, Elrohir. What happened while I was away, that you seem well on your way to a betrothal?”_

“ _Lindlaith arrived from Lothlórien last summer, that is what happened, Estel. But you wouldn't know, as you were purposely avoiding Imladris, and my dearest sister Arwen, for the last decades, would you?”_

There, the half-elf gave him a stern look, as if to say it wasn't the way to go about it, but truthfully, what else could be done? Aragorn felt there wasn't a chance he would ever fall in love with someone else, so trying to get over it was not on his priorities list, and running away with Arwen didn't feel like a possibility...

Changing the subject, as Elrohir knew there was no reasoning with his foster brother, the half-elf asked the dúnadan what had brought him to Imladris.

Aragorn winced a bit, but as he was considering how he could explain that to Elrohir... and to Elrond, for the matter, another idea came to his mind. He stopped walking, and squinted at his adoptive brother for a second...

Maybe it would be more interesting not to warn the twins, after all... They were so used to be the only lookalikes in the valley, since the three other twins who lived in Imladris actually did not live with their twins, one of which had sailed West, one living in Eryn Galen, and the last one...

The last one being Elros, brother of Elrond, and dead since long.

Which led back to what it implied if Arwen chose him, over the rest of her family...

Chasing away the depressing thoughts and the one hundred and eleven reasons why Aragorn should definitely not think about his beloved, the ranger simply informed Elrohir that he had been guiding a party of mortals to Imladris, under the Elvenking's advice, for they had a peculiar case to present to Lord Elrond. Elrohir frowned a bit, sensing that there was more to it, and that Estel was keeping something from him, but not out of duty... It was more like his foster brother was planning a prank or something.

Which was not Estel's usual behavior.

Which was odd.

Elrohir accompanied Aragorn to his father's study, before leaving in search of his twin brother. If Estel went as far as to prank them, or whatever it was that the ranger was doing, it had to be good. Because Estel didn't do pranks. Not since he was nineteen, and had become borringly responsible.

Not that Elladan and Elrohir were particularly immature or anything. They were elves, sorry, half-elven, after all. But they were still young enough, despite their nearly three millenia of living. So if they couldn't really be considered pranksters, they appreciated a good laugh... and Estel was behaving as if he had just found a way for the two of them to be the laughing stock.

Maybe it wasn't the case. But still. Better safe than sorry.

Elrohir had to find his twin brother, so that they could get prepared.

Just in case.

Of course, Aragorn wasn't exactly planning to prank his foster brothers. He was more mature than that, thank you very much. But Elrohir couldn't have known that, and it didn't hurt to see the half-elf turn slightly suspicious. It was always enjoyable, to watch someone who thought you might have done something, just not knowing what.

But for now, the dúnadan had more important matters to tend to.

He entered Elrond's study, and greeted his adoptive father, who was always happy to see him... even if no matter what, each time he saw one of Elros' direct descendants, Elrond could not help but remember his brother's choice. It wasn't easy, to be half-elven, truth to be told. Not only those of his line who chose to live a mortal life were taken from him early, but he wouldn't even see them walk out of the Halls of Mandos.

So Elrond had seen many of his brother's descendants be born, live on, and pass away. Even now, when the relation was this far away, looking at Aragorn, last of his brother's blood, hurt.

And yet another one who will die before long.

Elrond forced his smile to stay on his face, even if it felt more like a mask as his thoughts went onto unpleasant realms.

“ _What brings you here, Estel? I remember you saying you weren't meant to come back before spring at best?”_

“ _Indeed, Lord Elrond, and I shall be back on the roads before long. Gandalf tasked me to keep an eye on the borders of the Shire, especially for Bilbo's nephew Frodo Baggins. He wasn't very precise as to why, but he seems to believe something is bound to happen sometime soon. But the King of the Woodland Realm asked a favor of me, and I saw no reason to refuse.”_

Elrond grew tenser at the mention of Tranduil, wondering what exactly this favor could have been, and what it had to do with Imladris. Since Aeweryn's passing, the Elvenking had been mostly keeping to himself, and it wasn't in his nature to ask for favors.

But Aragorn only handed him a letter, which the elf lord took with relief.

It was logical, after all, to use the ranger rather than to send a messenger to do the exact same journey.

But as Elrond was about to open the letter, the dúnadan spoke once again.

“ _There is this letter, but it is not all. I have guided ten travelers to the large clearing near the road, as per Thranduil's request. I suppose this letter will tell you all you need to know about them, but I wanted to warn you. They are... peculiar.”_

“ _Peculiar in what way?”_

There the ranger seemed to hesit, but he answered the inquiry nonetheless.

“ _The looks of four of them might surprise you. In fact, they look like quadruplets, only not of the same age, but they are not brothers. And... I think you'd better see for yourself, Lord Elrond.”_

Not knowing what to make of that rather intriguing warning, the half-elf took to observe his foster son for a moment. Finally he sighed. There wasn't much he could do for now, especially if Estel didn't feel like sharing.

“ _If there is nothing else you wish to say, Estel, maybe you should go and fetch them. I am quite certain they would appreciate to spend the night in a bed, after the journey from Mirkwood to here.”_

The dúnadan gave the elf lord an uncertain smile, and left the study to do just that.

Elrond stared for a time at the doors of the room, still wondering why Estel wouldn't say more than, but still warn him that there was more. He mused that maybe, it wasn't that the man had not wanted to tell, but more that he had been unable to.

As if the facts were still too unnerving for him to put actual words on them.

Elrond's gaze went back to the unopened letter in his hands. He figured he should just read it, and hope it would be enough to quench his growing curiosity.

The parchment unfolded, and Elrond started reading.

It began rather formally, speaking of one or two things about the increasing attacks on Greenwood the Great, but soon it went to Thranduil's request to Aragorn. The elf lord, for a moment, had the impression that the Elvenking's handwriting had been less... controlled the longer this letter went, but he shook off the idea. Thranduil never let anything disturb his handwriting, not since his wife...

But there was something in the handwriting, even if Elrond had first thought it to be a trick of his mind.

Soon, though, the elf lord forgot all about handwritting. The content of the letter was enough to explain any strangeness in the Elvenking's handwriting.

Elrond posed the letter back on his desk, unbelieving of what he had just read.

Then he went back to read it again.

The content, of course, had not changed. It still held this incredible truth, this fact that had obviously been the root of Aragorn's unclear warning, of the man's uneasiness, even. The letter told of a story that sounded so impossible, that it could only be true, when written by Thranduil Oropherion.

Because there were two things the Elvenking would never joke about, even if he found his sense of humor back; these things were people; these people were his wife, and his sons.

Quadruplets, Estel had said. Legolas had stayed behind in Eryn Galen, so of course they would be like quadruplets. And the part which disturbed Aragorn so much, it had been their resemblance to the Elvenprince, when they weren't elves, but men.

Elrond laughed in humorless, weak amusement.

But how had this happened?

The letter did not say. Thranduil apparently thought it would be best for the half-elf to ask this question to one of the brothers, William Turner if possible, for he was the only one who knew all the truth.

And then, there was that part of the letter... That part, where Thranduil actually asked Elrond to do what he could to help the time travelers, to find an explanation, and perhaps a way back to their time, because it seemed it had to end this way. That part, where the Elvenking accepted that he would not have his sons with him for all eternity, as it should be for any elf. That part, where a broken father willingly asked someone to help a much-longed-for medicine to get away from him.

This was unbelievable. All of it.

Elrond read the letter one last time, before locking it in a drawer. It wouldn't do if someone found it. It was unlikely to happen, as elves weren't prone to sneaking around, especially not into their lord's correspondence, but one never knew. Things always happened, and sometimes no one was even to blame. A gust of wind could send the letter off his desk, Erestor or Lindir could pick it up, and unfortunately get a glimpse of the content, for example. It was unlikely, but better safe than sorry.

After that he stayed silent in his study for a few minutes. Then he rose, and began his walk to the entrance of Imladris that he knew Aragorn and the travelers would take. He walked slowly, an unusual frown on his face. He was thinking, and wondering.

Why? Why now? Why when the Enemy was so close to his full power, only lacking the One Ring?

How? How had they been called through Time and Space?

And finally, the question that had been left unanswered for the last two millenia.

Why had this fate befallen the royal family of Greenwood the Great in the first place? Was it a punishment from the Valar? Was it a ploy of the Necromancer, who lived not far from the Halls of Thranduil at the time, and whom they now knew to have been Sauron? Was it even someone's will, or was it simply misfortune?

Standing tall and alone before the small brigde of the main entrance of Imladris, Elrond saw the shapes of several riders and their horses long before they could see him. Two of his soldiers were accompanying the eleven men and women, and certainly they had spotted him, because one turned to speak to Estel.

He did not recognize all the riders, but some were known to him, even if only through visions. He had seen the four lookalikes, and he had seen the blond woman next to the one whom he knew to be missing a heart. The others he had not seen, but they were as unusual as Thranduil's sons.

Elrond thought back to the end of the letter. Thranduil had possibly been quite tense at the time, because the handwriting had gone sharp, and the content seemed to turn to sarcasm a bit too often. As if he had been trying to find another way to express his feelings, when he was letting go of these children he had never really known. Anyway, tense of not, the Elvenking had finished with some kind of childish challenge, daring Elrond to find out which one of the time travelers corresponded to which description or title...

Well, at least the king had been kind enough to give him some information about his new guests of far-away-Times, the elf lord thought drily as he looked over the travelers, who were now near enough to see him, he guessed.

If he recalled right, there were supposed to be two kings and a queen, but one of which had a trick to them. One lord, one naval officer, a prince and a princess, who would have another letter for him with further details, the daughter of a governor, two captains for two ships, and the equivalent of a ranked city guard of the future. Oh, and there was one who was dead and worked for Mandos, though Elrond had a good idea as to which one it was, seen he had seen his death in his visions. Perfect. And let's no forget that one was the great-grandson of a Vala, the great-great-grandson of another Vala, and the grandson of a Maia at the same time, however that was possible, and that two were supposely the grandchildren of another Maia, with one of the two being blessed by Lórien.

Honestly, since it amused Thranduil so much, the Elvenking should just have sent him a detailed family tree for those of illustrious ancestry, and have written who was who for the rest of the data.

The moment they came close enough for him to notice the weird feeling that came from some of them, Elrond knew which one had the most incredible family tree, besides Thranduil's quadruplets, who were in fact missing one, truly being quintuplets, of course. The man simply reeked of power, even if he didn't seem to have any true magic, like Elrond had inherited from Melian. If Glorfindel had been present, the golden elf lord could even have told that Odysseus of Ithaca not only reeked of his great-great-grandfather's power, but also looked much like Manwë when the Vala decided to take a form close to that of the First or Second Borns.

But the man wasn't the only one to feel powerful, and even a bit frightening. Elrond smiled slightly.

“Welcome to Imladris, or Rivendell, as the mortals call the Last Homely House. I am Lord Elrond.”

 


	7. Values

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, I was taking a break from writing ( more commonly known as writer block )

**TA 3018, February**

 

**Imladris**

**Elrond's study**

 

Elrond watched Thranduil's children from the window sill.

They had arrived during the preceding month, under Estel's guidance, and the Half-elven had quickly found himself fascinated by the mystery they represented. The four men looked exactly ike their other brother, Legolas Thranduilion, and yet they were different. And that not only in coloring, but also in personality.

William Turner was too much like his father, Paris was completely insure of himself, Brian Epkeen seemed about to end his life every morning and to end someone else's life the following afternoons, Balian was so calm he reminded Elrond of Aeweryn a lot.

The others were also interesting people. Odysseus of Ithaca and Cassandra of Troy were the subjects of the elven lord's actual wondering, especially.

Every time Elrond talked with the mortal king, he was reminded of his brother, Elros, and he couldn't quite understand why. It irked him a bit, he had to admit. Odysseus was clever and wise, for sure, but it wasn't only that. There was something else, as if Elrond could simply feel the man's superiority over many others, mortals and immortals alike. The Half-elven's closest guess was that Odysseus had to be the one with the most incredible ancestry amongst the guests, the descendant of two Valar and a Maia. If it wasn't him, Elrond had no idea how he could make even him feel young at times.

As for Paris' sister, she had been the reason for Thranduil letting his estranged sons out of his sight, which was clearly a feat of itself.

Speaking of sight, and of Cassandra of Troy, she and the elf lord were supposed to have their first talk in a matter of minutes. Elrond watched the mortals from his window for another moment, then walked away. He reached the door to his study at the very moment a tentative knocking was heard.

The Half-elven opened the door, and was greeted with Cassandra's face.

“Come in, Miss Cassandra. I believe we have to speak.”

The young woman hesitated, clearly still ill-at-ease, either with elves, or with that language that some called Westron, and others called English, your guess. Elrond gave her a calming smile, and Cassandra walked in the study.

The trojan princess still had difficulties not to be in awe each time she saw an elf. Meaning, almost always, as she had passed the better part of the last three months in elven cities.

Elves were simply... different. They reminded her of her meeting with Apollo, and at the same time, not. They were... smoother than the god had been. They weren't as powerful, nor as frightening, though Lord Elrond was way more powerful than the average elf. From him, Cassandra could sense about the same amount of power as she had sensed coming from William Turner, though she hadn't realized the man was the one responsible for that at first. In fact, the princess was certain Lord Elrond had been one of the powers she had sensed back then, in Mirkwood.

The Half-elven was dozens of times more powerful than she herself was, but he didn't frighten her. She could see it in his eyes, and she could sense it in his aura. He was nice, and comforting.

He offered her a seat, and Cassandra sat, a bit stiffly if she wanted to be honest.

“How do you appreciate your stay in Imladris, Miss Cassandra?”

His tone told her the lord was truly concerned, and wasn't asking only out of courtesy. It was natural, she mused, considering they weren't the average travelers. The lord knew about their circumstances, as he was more likely to be of help than Thranduil had been.

And there definitely was something disturbing about being whisked out of one's time and into another Age.

Cassandra carefully thought her words, before answering. She still wasn't at ease in Westron.

“Your realm is treating... us well, Lord Elrond.”

The elven lord heard a certain wariness in the young woman's voice, that did not surprise him.

“You must be wondering why I am only meeting you now, almost one month after your arrival.”

Cassandra nodded curtly, blushing a bit.

Elrond smiled in amusement as he saw her embarrassment. He had lived long enough to know how people thought, most of the time.

“You needed rest after your journey, and I believe this month has been quite beneficial to your proficiency in Westron. What we are going to talk about is better understood if there is not too many misunderstandings of language.”

Cassandra nodded, but said nothing. She still didn't know exactly what the elf lord could do to help her, and she was even a bit dubious. So far, no one had been able to help her, so why now? Why Elrond Half-elven, and not someone else?

Why not before?

“The Elvenking wrote to me that you have some... uncanny ability pertaining to the sight. Myself, I am subject to visions from time to time. The possible futures, the hopes of significant people... They come to me in my dreams, and haunt my mind for centuries, sometimes. Not all of them come true, I must say, but enough actually happens for me to know they aren't simple dreams.”

Elrond turned to looked at his valley, through the high window.

“Do you still feel the presence of the Enemy, Miss Cassandra, even within Imladris?”

“I... can sense him, but... It is as if he was on the... other side of a window pane, perhaps. In the Halls of Thranduil it was better than out in the open, but even then Sauron's... malevolence was haunting me. Here... I don't feel the threat. Like... the portrait of an evil, and not the evil... itself. Why is that?”

The young woman truly looked surprised by the fact, even if she had noticed it weeks before. She simply couldn't understand why the terrible pressure from before was being repressed. How it could be repressed. What could possibly be strong enough to almost erase the evil's presence?

The elven lord's smile thinned a bit, and his gaze sharpened as it went past the limits of his realm, and towards the far-away lands of Mordor.

“I am a descendant of a Maia, just like you, I believe. And if not everyone in the family was gifted with a part of Melian's magic, I was. Moreover, I was given this ring of power, Vilya, which tremendously adds to my powers. I use it to ward this realm against Sauron's magical attacks, as well as from his sight in general.”

Elrond showed her the golden Ring of Sapphire. Cassandra was almost struck by a powerful feeling when her eyes feel on the jellew, as she was finally able to pinpoint the source of at least half of the Half-elven's power. All that time, it had been as if the ring had been veiled, hidden from her eyes, and though she had sensed it, which wasn't everybody's case, she suddenly felt like she had been blindfolded for the whole month.

The princess looked away from Vilya. The ring and the elf lord together were too powerful for her to look at right now, and she almost felt as oppressed as when she had been fearing Sauron's presence. It was nowhere near Apollon's presence, though, and not mean in the slightest. It was simply... too much.

Cassandra couldn't repress a gulp.

“I suppose I have to thank you for my... tranquil... nights, then.”

The atmosphere of the room suddenly lightened, and Elrond smiled again.

“I suppose so, but do not feel forced to. This protection is as much for myself than for you and the other residents of Imladris.”

“Thank you, still.”

There was an eery silence for a while, but finally Lord Elrond put an end to it. Cassandra of Troy had come to him for help about her clairvoyance, after all. It wouldn't do to forget about it, especially now that the Enemy was gaining his power back. Elrond was powerful, and Vilya wasn't to be taken lightly, but Sauron was a Maia, though a fallen one. The Lord of Imladris would have a difficult time defending his realm, if the Great Eye brought his attention onto his lands; and if the Half-elven was busy defending the valley from actual attacks, he wasn't sure he'd be able to also fend off Sauron's attempts at spying.

Cassandra would be there to be seen, then, and Elrond did not want to imagine what her fate would be if the Dark Lord took an interest in the young woman.

 

 

**The training fields**

 

Paris was sitting in the grass, watching wistfully as James Norrington and the king of Ithaca sparred efficiently not far away from him. Cassandra was off to see Lord Elrond, and the trojan prince wasn't feeling comfortable enough with anyone else to spend his free time, so here he was, despairing over the fact that he would never be able to hold a blade and actually do something else than crawling back behind Hector to be protected instead of fighting his own battles. And, because it wasn't depressing enough like that, he had to come and watch as two skilled sword fighters sparred.

At least Will Turner wasn't here too. The man was simply so good with a blade Paris considered asking if he hadn't been blessed by a god or something.

But William Turner aside, Odysseus, Strider, the commodore, most of the elves, Balian of Ibelin, and, worse, even Elizabeth Swann and Anamaria, were incredibly good at sword fighting. Each time the trojan prince came and watched their training sessions, he felt like they were mocking him at the same time, even if they weren't.

All that had led him to wonder why exactly he was wandering to the training fields every morning, considering it made him more depressed than he already was, every. Single. Time.

Strangely enough, he hadn't found an answer to that question.

And so he still came back every morning, to mope over the fact that he was an useless fighter and a shameful coward.

Someone sat down next to Paris, and the young man was taken out of his moping for a grand total of three seconds, just the time for him to recognize one of Lord Elrond's twin sons. Then he went back to moping, his eyes wandering again to the only two mortal fighters on the training fields.

Odysseus sent Norrington's sword flying, but the Navy man evaded the next attack, and jumped out of the king's range. The Ithacan narrowed his eyes, but barely reacted in time to avoid getting kicked in the leg. Odysseus having taken a step back, Norrington passed by him and got his short sword back.

In the blink of an eye, the two fighters were back at it.

Paris mused that if it had been him, he would have gone terrified the very moment the sword had been yanked out of the commodore's grip. Then again, that would have happened at least ten minutes sooner.

“Your companions' weaponry is slightly odd, but they seem to be making a good work of them.”

This startled Paris, who spun around and looked at the elf sitting next to him.

He had almost forgotten his presence.

“Odysseus' xiphos is the... standard... sword, where I come from. And I heard James Norrington and William Turner speaking about their... thin blades as if it was normal... for them. Turner makes miracles with his sword, if anything.”

Paris' Westron wasn't yet very good, he had to admit, but he knew how to speak, now. Only, there were times when he couldn't find the words right away, or times when he had to pick another word than what he was thinking about in his mother tongue. No one seemed to mind.

Elladan, or was he Elrohir?, looked from Odysseus back to Paris.

“I have seen William Turner fight. He is on equal grounds with Glorfindel, and that is definitely a miracle. If I didn't know any better, I would believe he is more than a few decades old.”

Paris understood immediately what the elf meant by that. Turner had incredible talent, that much was obvious, but it coudn't be only that, could it? The man seemed to have an amount of experience that far surpassed any mortal's. Moreover, the trojan prince had seen some of Lord Glorfindel's sparring, too, and against many people, elves and mortals alike. Lord Glorfindel was never beaten by anyone, and rarely challenged.

With Turner, it had been a tie.

Elrohir's, or was he Elladan?, eyes were back on Norrington and Odysseus, but that didn't mean the conversation had ended.

“Don't you have one of these xiphos, if you are from the same place as this man, then? I think our blacksmiths would be interested in taking a look, if only for curiosity's sake.”

The ellon immediately picked up on the young man's reaction. Elladan looked back again at Paris of Troy, surprised by the tense front the prince was now showing.

“I don't have one. My... skills at sword... fighting are terrible.”

Despite the young man's hesitations, Paris' voice was sharp, almost defensive. Elladan could feel some hurt in his statement, and wondered why it was here. It wasn't as if not being a good sword fighter was a shame in itself. The young prince certainly had others qualities, didn't he?

What came next cleared it all up.

“And even if they weren't... I am nothing... but a coward.”

The bitterness in Paris' voice was strong, and the ellon felt he had to try and cheer him up.

“The very fact that you told me this tends to demonstrate it to be a false statement.”

The young man looked at him oddly, and Elladan wondered for a minute if there was something he hadn't understood. Paris of Troy hadn't been speaking Westron for very long, after all, and it was even incredible that the mortal would already understand so much. Being thrown right into a land where no one but his sister and Odysseus of Ithaca could really understand him might have helped with that...

Elladan glanced at Odysseus of Ithaca as this thought came to his mind. If Paris', Cassandra's and Balian's progress was incredible, the older man was simply a wonder. In two months, he had learned how to speak Westron perfectly, and he could already have a clever conversation in Sindarin. William Turner did miracles with a blade, and Odysseus of Ithaca did wonder with learning languages. These visitors that Estel had brought to Imladris surely were entertaining, and surprising.

But back to topic, the ellon tried to explain better what he had meant before.

“You have to be a little courageous at least, to admit to being a coward. The fact that you said it so plainly is more of a proof that you don't know yourself well enough, or that you underestimate your own heart, than of what you meant by it.”

Paris sneered at himself, as the elf tried to comfort him.

“Or... maybe it only means I have no shame.”

The young man kept quiet for a minute, plucking at the grass in anger, but in the end he couldn't keep it in.

“You shouldn't... waste your time with someone like me. I have no... redeeming... qualities to speak of.”

The elf next to him sighed, but didn't leave.

“Of course you have. Maybe sword fighting is not your thing, but there surely are other things you excel at.”

This made Paris laugh. Coldly.

“I am very good at making... bad decisions. And... bringing destruction to my... home. And I suppose I have good looks, since... women... tend to swoon everywhere I... go”.

Alright, maybe he was exagerating a bit. Sure, there were women who almost drooled on him, but it wasn't all of them. Some had more self-respect than that. More self-respect than he had, too.

But he needed to let it out. He knew he had somehow talked about it with the Elvenking, though he wasn't sure as to what exactly had been said, but that talk had only taken care of his guilt. The shame was still here.

Here, and strong.

“I am a... shameless person, am I not? I... fell in love with the wife of the king we... were sent out to... treat for peace with, and I found nothing... better to do... about it than to take her... away and start a war. We might love each... other, but it does not excuse the... hundreds of deaths I have caused! And even after that, I couldn't even fight to... make... it end. I froze, and ran back to hide behind my brother... Hector... died because of my cowardice.”

Elladan didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know enough about the story to speak truthfully. He didn't even know if...

But the tip of a blade embedded itself in the ground just next to them, and the two looked up to see Odysseus and Norrington standing there.

“ _If you cannot find value in yourself unless you get to prove your bravery, prince of Troy, then you will never have any, as you are wasting your time lying on the grass. Some, like Achilles, can afford to be reckless, for they are Ares' favorites. But others have to train to become strong, and then be able to be courageous and not die of it. You never truly trained with a blade, did you?”_

Elladan and Norrington were watching the king of Ithaca as he spoke, wondering what exactly he was saying, for Paris to have gone this pale.

There must have been a reason for him to speak in Greek, when his quick mastery of Westron had almost become legendary. Maybe this wasn't something others should hear. If that was the case, they hoped Paris would know to appreciate it.

“ _Basic training only, but I was soon deemed useless, and so we focused more on archery, where I was great.”_

Odysseus refrained a snort. While it was true that cultavating one's qualities over their weaknesses would lead to greater results, telling a prince he was “useless” at sword fighting had surely been humiliating. For the fighters of Troy, as for his own, archery was good, but it meant nothing if the person couldn't even use a xiphos.

It wasn't the way to make sure the prince would master at least the basics. It was the way to keep him away from any kind of blade, and to be sure he'd stay “useless”.

“Stand up, and take a blade. What you need is not comforting, but training.”

Paris eyed the ithacan king warily, and it didn't escape Odysseus' notice.

“Stand up, I said. You cannot be brave if you do not know how to fight; you can only be foolish.”

 

 

**TA 3018, March**

 

**A path out of Imladris**

 

Aragorn, Brian and Anamaria were ready to leave the elven city, one because it was his duty, and two because they couldn't stand the inaction anymore. Aragorn would lead the two time travelers to Bree, the biggest settlement of men around, and then be on his merry way... That is, keeping an eye on the Shire, but the two others didn't need to know that.

Brian had thought about it a lot, during the last two months. He wasn't feeling at home in the elven city, even if he certainly was welcomed. The elves were too... peaceful for him. He needed destruction, chaos, and unlawness, not to think about all that he had lost during the past year. He needed something to occupy himself with, and running after the bad guys or exploring a new world could do the trick, but lying in wait in a city of peace wasn't it. He himself was too broken to truly appreciate the peace of Imladris, or of Thranduil's realm.

The first months had been alright, and all of a sudden it hadn't been alright anymore. The inactivity was gnawing at his nerves, and he couldn't stand it anymore. Training everyday wasn't working, and it was the most physical thing he could do here as a guest.

No, he'd rather leave Lord Elrond's realm, even if it was to live with the money he'd make himself, hard as it would be in a new world.

Lord Elrond was here, too, saying goodbye to Strider, apparently. Brian had noticed the Half-elven called the man Estel, but he doubted it was his real name either. A hunch, he'd say.

The elven lord turned to look at the two other mortals who would be leaving his city this day. He was quite certain Thranduil would be aggravated to hear he was letting one of his sons out of sight, but what could he do? It was obvious that Brian Epkeen wasn't at ease in Imladris anymore, and Elrond certainly wasn't going to keep him somewhere he didn't want to be.

“You can come back any time you want, Brian, Anamaria.”

The young black woman gave him a thin smile, and thanked him for his hospitality. Elrond was a bit worried as to the welcome she'd receive in Bree, but when he had talked to her about it, Brian had proposed to be her shadow amongst the mortals, and to break the nose of whoever tried to harm her because of her skin color. Anamaria had scowled, and said she could do that herself, but had accepted to stay with him anyway. They seemed used to this kind of situations, whatever it meant about their own Times.

For Anamaria, it wasn't that she needed chaos or something to take her mind away from the failures of her life. It was simply that, even if she had liked being a guest and not having to do anything if she didn't want to, she was starting to feel like a parasite. She knew the elves didn't see her like that, but she had never been someone of high status. She figured she needed to work again, to do something useful again.

And maybe, just maybe, she wasn't feeling as good with the elves as the others did. Most of the time travelers were people of importance. Most of them could, if not compete, at least not feel too out of place amongst the immortals and their greatness. Odysseus was a king, and Elizabeth Swann was the daughter of a governor. And even those who didn't really belong amongst the great, like Brian Epkeen, there was something about them... Something about the lookalikes, in fact. The four of them simply seemed right in the elven city, as if they weren't only mortals. They looked... at home, even if for Epkeen, there were other things that plagued him.

Anamaria didn't feel like that. She was an orphan, and she had worked all her life.

She needed to get out of the peaceful Imladris, out of this place that was treating her as if she was some kind of princess.

“I suppose we might come back at some point, Lord Elrond, but we need out for now. I'll remember your offer and your kindness, however.”

The Half-elven smiled a calm smile at her, and the black woman could just say he would welcome her back into his realm when she'd need it. She didn't know why he was so kind... Elves were too kind too her. She wasn't used to it.

The elven lord nodded and looked back at Aragorn. In no more than a whisper, he spoke to him, while the two time travelers checked their packs one last time.

“Make sure they get to Bree unscathed, please. Thranduil would not like it if we... lost his guests.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, still puzzled by all the secrecy that went between the Elvenking and his foster father, when it pertained to the people he had led into Imladris. The elf and the half-elf obviously knew more than he did on the matter, but they weren't sharing anything.

“These two are more than able to defend themselves, as I am sure you know, Lord Elrond. Brian Epkeen might even be one of the most dangerous of them, right behind William Turner, and with Balian of Ibelin and Odysseus of Troy, when it comes to fighting their way out of skirmishes. And almost all the others are good fighters of their own. Truthfully, I do not believe I have ever traveled with a more dangerous group, unless we were going to war.”

A fleeting smile crossed Elrond's face.

“Yes, I have heard of their fighting prowess. Glorfindel cannot keep quiet about William Turner, as it is. They truly are a remarkable group. But it is not what I am worried about.”

There the Half-elven kept quiet for a moment, wondering how much to tell his foster son. He trusted Estel, more than many people, but this was something else entirely. The less people knew, the less chances it got out. And he didn't want people with ill intentions to hear that “Strider” might knew something about some people that could be of interest to the Enemy.

What would come out of it would be terrible, and not only for the man.

“These two, and the others you accompanied here... They know next to nothing about this world. They come from far, far away, if you could say, and even if mortals men are more or less the same no matter where they come from, they still have different ways of being.”

If Aragorn understood more than what was said, he didn't let it show.

One last minute of silence, and the ranger walked onto the path, towards the two other travelers, and out of Imladris, once again. Once more. But not for the last time.

Brian and Anamaria followed him, an impatient smile on their faces, but nonetheless, they sent one last look at the elven city they were leaving behind. They were happy to go back to active life, the detective thought humorously, but it didn't mean they wouldn't miss the quiet of Imladris.

Lord Elrond watched them disappear in a curve of the path, a sad smile on his face. Then he turned back, and passed an arch that marked the end / entrance to Imladris. There, he stopped and looked back one more time.

“You could have told her goodbye, she wouldn't have minded.”

The man leaning against the arch snorted.

“I tried to have her hanged not so long ago. She was working with a pirate, so it was my duty, but it won't change the fact that I would have ordered her death if I had caught her. Anamaria doesn't want my goodbye.”

Elrond looked at James Norrington, and all he could read on the man's face was that he truly believed what he had just said.

 

 

**A garden**

 

Elizabeth was sitting, thoughful, on a bench, alone. A few elves were speaking together, on the other side of the garden, but there wasn't anyone else here. The men had gone to train, and she had meant to go with them, but something had happened, and now she was here, alone.

Her eyes had fallen upon Will, and something had snapped in her mind. As if she had realized something, suddenly. Even if she didn't know why.

Elizabeth had looked upon her lover, and she had felt all the things he was hiding from her. All the things he wasn't telling her. All the time he hadn't told her about.

She knew they were married, in the time he came from, but it couldn't be about that. There had to be something else. He wouldn't be so closed because of that, would he?

Maybe something had happened to her, between their wedding, and the actual date he came from?

If it was that, the young woman was certain Will wouldn't have told her about it.

She sighed.

Just then, two people sat on each of her sides.

Elizabeth looked up from the vague point she had been fixing, and saw Sibylla at her right, and Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond, at her left.

“Is everything alright, Elizabeth?”

The former queen of Jerusalem had a slight accent, which was charming, thruth to be said. The Pirate King wasn't sure whether it was because of her mother tongue being French, or because she came from a few centuries before her own time.

“It is nothing, truly.”

Arwen smiled softly, as if she knew that excuse all too well.

“It is never nothing, Miss Swann.”

The young woman hesitated for a time but eventually let it go.

“Will worries me.”

“He always seems incredibly happy to be in your presene, though.”

“He does, doesn't he? But he shouldn't. Not like that, at least. Every time we are together, I feel like he is blocking out all the things that could hurt our happiness. It feels as if...”

“As if he was enjoying the time you had together, because he knew it will not last forever?”

The two women turned to look at the half-elf, who seemed to know that all too well, too. Elizabeth knew it was exactly that, Arwen had nailed it perfectly, and it wasn't reassuring at all. As for Sibylla, she could tell, by the look on the other woman's face, that it was the exact answer.

Arwen's smile disappeared, and her gaze lost itself in the garden.

“Miss Swann, I personally am in love with a mortal man, to my father's horror. And I cherish any moment I can have with Estel, for I fear the time he will be gone, as all mortals do in the end. I... do not know why your husband would look at you this way, but I know that look all too well. I see it in my mirror every morning. My father has it, as he look upon Estel, as he wonders if I will choose a mortal life, as he remembers our mother who dwells in Valinor, and whom he can't see without leaving these lands of Arda forever. My brothers have it, as they spend a good part of their time with mortals.”

There, Arwen went quiet for a time, before she could muster enough courage to speak her assumptions.

“I fear you have to consider the possibility of your untimely demise, Miss Swann, and that, for some reason, your husband knows of it when it has yet to happen.”

Elizabeth paled.

Arwen didn't know about their time-travelling issues, but her hypothesis worked too well with the truth, that it had to be true.

Sibylla, who had kept silent as Arwen spoke, decided it was time to intervene.

“Let me tell you a story.”

Arwen and Elizabeth looked at her, curious, but a bit put out by the change of conversation.

“It is the story of a princess and a baron.”

The two others shared a look, as they were pretty sure Balian's title was that of a baron, and because they knew for a fact that Sibylla was a queen... and before that, a princess. Arwen had offered her the truth of her love, while Elizabeth was troubled by hers. Was it the time when Sibylla gave them her own story?

“The baron had come from another country, to take the lordship after the death of his father. The princess was married to a despicable man who wanted her brother's throne. The princess and the baron came to love each other. But the king, her brother, died of a terrible sickness. Before that, the king had asked the baron to marry his sister, after the execution of her current husband, because he could not be allowed to rule the kingdom, or he'd lead it into war. But the baron would not bear to be the reason for a man's execution, and to be rewarded for that by a kingdom and a wife. The king died, the princess became queen, and the evil husband king. The baron was left alone, but even then he did not come to regret his choice. The evil king started a war and was beaten. The baron came and saved the people, if he couldn't save the kingdom. Him and the queen left for his country, and they got married as a blacksmith and his wife.”

Sibylla tried not to think too much of her brother, and not to remember Guy of Lusignan. Her life hadn't been exactly perfect, even if she had been a princess and a queen. The suffering of Baudouin had been terrible enough, but being married off to Guy...

Looking Elizabeth in the eyes, a sad smile on her lips, Sibylla ended her tale.

“What you must understand, Elizabeth, is that men... people, in fact... can't make the right choice every time. When a choice is right for one thing, it can be wrong for another. Balian... Balian could have been king, and my husband sooner. Instead, he let a war be born, and he let me to Guy of Lusignan. But if he had accepted my brother's offer, he would have hated himself all his life. Your Will is a man, like the others. He thinks he is doing the best for you, and he could even be right about that. You don't know how you will react to whatever he is hiding from you.”

Seeing the younger woman's outraged face, Sibylla hurried another sentence.

“I am not suggesting you let it go. Even if he is right, and you migth be less hurt as long as you don't know, he is hurting. Marriage is not only about protecting each other, but also about sharing the difficult times. Speak to him. Help him to open to you, if he can't do it by himself.”

“I'm not sure I can do that without getting angry at him.”

Elizabeth looked ashamed of herself. Arwen and Sibylla shared a knowing glance, and the elven lady put a hand on her shoulder.

“Do you trust him?”

The Pirate King gave a humorless laugh, as all the times Will had done something for her came back to her mind. If she couldn't trust William, who could she trust?

“He jumped right into trouble to save my life, then he did it a second time, and after that he tried to give up on me when he thought I loved another man, and for my sake, he even volunteered to go into a forsaken place to retrieve that man. Will values me much more than he values himself. Only his promises can rival with my well-being in his mind.”

“Then help him get over it. Make him talk, and if he doesn't, make him understand that you are not going anywhere until he does, and after that too. It might take time, but you cannot give up, if you truly love him.”

Elizabeth nodded, and the two others figured they'd better leave her alone again, so that she could think efficiently. They excused themselves, to let her with her thoughts. But just before they left, Arwen turned around one last time.

“Miss Swann...”

“Call me Elizabeth.”

The half-elf smiled warmly at that.

“Elizabeth, if it can help: from someone who has the same look on her face as William Turner does, it helps when the other accepts that some things will happen no matter what. You just have not to let it take you down.”

 

 

**TA 3018, April**

 

**Eriador**

**Bree**

 

Brian had just finished taking care of his hunting knife when Anamaria joined him in the outskirts of the small human town.

“Anything happened?”

He shook his head. The day had been calm, calmer, in fact, than the whole week.

For some reason, possibly the coming war the elves had talked about both in Eryn Galen and in Imladris, the number of dangers on the roads, and even in town, had gone up in the last months. The inhabitants of Bree blamed the rangers like Strider, and looked a bit oddly at Brian and Anamaria, but the detective couldn't help but point out that, until now, the scoundrels were never rangers, and he and the young woman had been working for the town, not against it.

It could be that he had broken one jaw at some point, but the bastard had been trying to make a move on his friend. Needless to say, if Brian hadn't broken the idiot's jaw, and the guy had gotten to Anamaria, he'd have suffered from much more. The black woman knew how to defend herself, better than some men could.

Mark, who worked with them, stood up and stretched a bit.

“Nothing of interest. Brian frightened two scamps out of their skins when they tried to sneak upon us, but apart from that...”

It had become a popular game for the town children to try and get past the guards without being seen, but somehow, Brian always knew when a kid was up to no good. And the man had already made a reputation for himself, even if he had been in town only for one month, roughly.

Strider had led him and Anamaria to the town, but left just before they actually put a foot in town. The ranger had said it'd be better for their reputation, if they weren't seen with him.

After a week of searching for work, a man had offered to the detective to be a guard for the city. Midnight patrols, all that. Both Brian and Anamaria had been interested. The other guards had laughed at her, but she had dueled each of them, and beaten all of them. After that, the guards had started to feel some kind of grudging admiration for the woman, even if the town folks tended to eye her warily because of her skin color. Brian always glared at these people, and nothing was ever said.

In their defense, the number of passing strangers had gone up, and some of them weren't exactly friendly, especially the Southrons. But Anamaria kept away from anyone with the same skin color as her, or any shade close. Herself, she didn't like the vibe most of them were giving off.

The young woman sighed, and confirmed the calmness of the day.

“Same here. John and I had to deal with a wandering wolf, but apart from that...”

Mark snorted. He had just spotted the relief team, and was more than glad that their shift was ending. He had spent one of the most boring morning in his life.

“I won't complain that no one is trying to murder anyone today, personally.”

“Yeah, you do that...”

The other men took their shift, and the three headed back into town. They were planning to go to the _Prancing Pony_ , and get something to eat. It was already one in the afternoon, and Brian could have eaten a horse, or at least he felt that way.

Anamaria gritted her teeth when three Southrons sitting in the back of the inn eyed her expectantly. It wasn't the first time this happened, and if nothing had come out of it for now, she had enough experience with Tortuga to guess it wouldn't be like that forever.

Brian, having noticed his friend tensing, glanced to the Southrons. His hand went to his hunting knife almost instinctively. It jolted him out of it immediately.

When had he become so used to the medieval-like world of Arda, that he didn't hesitate anymore about using a blade against someone? Then again, hadn't he been just the same before, only, with a gun?

It raised other questions, though, such as, why was he so tunned in with this time, this way of life, when he was supposed to come from the Seventh Age, from the twenty first century? Why was he feeling so right, in this time... and going against villains, if possible?

Before he knew it, his meal was on the table, just before his nose, and Anamaria was nudging him to eat. Brian blinked, and complied.

Then he saw Mark and Anamaria tense, and the detective had an ominous feeling three Southrons were standing right behind him, and looking at his friend. Brian eyed his meal one last time, and let down his fork.

Then he turned around on his chair.

And alright, the Southrons were there, smirking at Anamaria.

They said something in their language that, unlike they expected, sounded only like gibberish to the black woman. Trying to stay polite, despite what she suspected, Anamaria smiled.

“Excuse me, but I don't speak your tongue.”

The Southrons shared a surprised look, but finally squinted at her. They seemed to think she was mocking them, and they didn't seem to like that.

Brian fiddled with the handle of his knife, while Mark had a hand on his sword. The young woman was doing her best not to act just the same. It seemed to her that her cutlass was literally calling to her.

The taller of the strangers spoke again.

“We were wondering if you'd rather not spend your time with people more... like you.”

And he looked at the two white men with disguised contempt. If Brian had been given money each time a suspect had given him that look, he'd be rich by now.

Anamaria forced her smile to remain.

“I am in perfectly fine company, gentlemen. Mark and Brian are my friends, and I am not used to spending time with strangers. You are strangers.”

The man's face twisted.

“If you'd rather be a whore for these white wimps...”

He drawled that last part, but strangely enough, the drawling died on his lips before he could say anything more.

Anamaria and Mark had paled when the Southron had used the abhorred word which would not be repeated here. The patrons of the nearby tables had gone silent. The two other black men looked a bit green. Barliman Butterbur, the owner of the inn, had frozen in whatever he had been doing.

As for Brian, the detective had spun around his chair, and crashed his right foot against the tall Southron's left leg. Now the man was on the floor, and Brian was fisting his hair, having caught it just before the guy's nose encountered the floor.

“If you don't intend to take back that word, bastard, we will step out of this inn, and take care of that mouth of yours in the street.”

The Southron cursed some foul words, and Brian rolled his eyes. The two other black men were either less courageous, or more intelligent, than the bastard, because they didn't seem thrilled with the idea.

The detective got the man up, and pushed him out of the inn. Mark and Anamaria followed, but the other Southrons stayed wisely inside.

In the street, some people stopped to see what it was about. When they saw who were involved, they almost winced for the poor fool who had angered Brian Epkeen. The young man might not be bulky or frightening, but they knew he was an efficient fighter eitherway.

Then again, if the Southron had angered the guard, he surely deserved whatever was going to fall upon him.

The black man spat in the earth, and looked crossly at the detective.

“And now what? Do you think you can beat me to a pulp, or what?”

Brian smirked. He knew for a fact that he could take the idiot on anytime, but that wasn't what he was planning on. That bastard was in for a bad surprise.

The detective backed away, leaving Anamaria to take care of her honor herself.

“I'm not the one you insulted, man.”

Mark winced. He had known it would end this way, but still.

 

 

**Imladris**

 

Will and Balian had left the forges alone that day, and were walking towards the training fields. For all that, it didn't mean they weren't discussing smiths-things.

They passed a corner, and Will almost bumped into someone. Blinking, he recognized Lord Glorfindel. And as he blinked, he winced.

He had successfully avoided the elf, since their last sparring session, but apparently it was time for it to come to an end.

“William Turner! Just the man I was searching for. Would you mind if I borrowed you for a moment?”

“Of course not. Balian, I'll find you at the training fields later?”

The other blacksmith nodded, feeling something was not said about this encounter, but he just went his way.

Will killed his grimace into a smile, and waited for the moment it would all crash down.

At first, he had been able to play it smoothly. Lord Elrond had obviously noticed something, but the Half-elven knew who he really was, and what had happened to him, so it didn't matter. Most of the elves in Imladris seemed to know something was different with him, that he wasn't just any mortal, but they reacted exactly the same with Cassandra and Odysseus. But Lord Glorfindel...

During their matchs, the elven lord had found an adversary worthy of his thousands of years of experience, and that had gotten his attention. Will was pretty certain the elf had finally seen the hint he needed, when they had shared a glance at the end of their last match. The hint that said he had seen death in person, just like the elf had.

If Will had recognized the look in Lord Glorfindel's eyes, was it impossible for the elf to have recognized the one in Will's eyes? Certainly not.

The captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ refrained a sigh, and watched with envy Balian who was walking away from all that, not even knowing what he was walking away from.

While William was preparing himself for an unpleasant interrogation, Balian reached the training fields, and arrived just in time to see the beginning of Paris' training session.

Odysseus and James Norrington had demeed it their duty to turn the young prince into a capable swordman, despite Paris' adamant protest.

So far, it wasn't very successful.

Sure, the trojan prince could now handle himself in a simple fight, and he wasn't running away anymore, but it seemed they had reached his maximum. For the last week, he hadn't progressed at all, and the king of Ithaca and the commodore simply didn't know what more to do to help him.

They could have given up. After all, Paris himself was convinced he couldn't get better than that, he was even surprised he had gotten where he was now. But the two older men wouldn't hear of it. They had told him they could make him a better fighter, and they felt they hadn't fulfilled their promise yet.

Balian sat on the grass, curious as to what they had managed to get out of Paris exactly. He had spent most of the last weeks with the smiths, and hadn't seen much of the prince's training.

The training really wasn't going well.

Balian sighed, and looked at his own broad sword, toughtful. He had a feeling that his lookalike wouldn't get better than that. Only taking a look at the younger man's training told him so much. Now he could defend himself, but that was all, and the blacksmith felt it would never be more.

Paris was fighting against Norrington, for now. Odysseus had spotted Balian, and joined him on the grass.

“It isn't going anywhere, right?”

The older man sighed.

“He is simply not talented at sword fighting, I guess. But it is a matter of honor for him, and even if he is asking us to give up, it does not mean he will accept it. He will only be more ashamed of himself, and I don't want that to happen...”

They watched for a few minutes in silence, until Balian broke it again.

“Paris is great at archery, is he not?”

Odysseus scoffed at the idea that Paris of Troy could be “great” at archery.

“He isn't 'great', he is a pure genius. He can rivals any elf, almost as good as the Elvenprince Legolas, and even when he fails a shot, the arrow somehow ends up just where it is needed. The other day, an unexpected gush of wind misdirected his shot, but instead of losing it, the arrow embedded itself in the next target. Right in the middle. But Paris doesn't understand it is enough of a talent by itself. As long as he can't fight in close combat too, in 'brave' combat, he will not be satisfied.”

The king of Ithaca saw Balian frown a bit, and suddenly stand up and stop the training session. The Ithacan watched as the former lord and Norrington discussed something under Paris' confused glances. After that, Balian made the prince do some moves, before disappearing in the direction of his room.

The commodore let Paris go not long after that, and joined Odysseus on the grass.

“Any idea what it was about?”

“I think... Balian might be planning on making a special weapon just for Paris, but what? I have no idea.”

Odysseus looked at his xiphos and sighed. The sword was getting old, but he didn't feel like learning to use another kind of blade. He was... too old to learn quickly. He just hoped his xiphos wouldn't break too soon.

“Balian asked about Paris' skills at archery.”

James raised both eyebrows.

“Indeed? Well, I still don't see how the prince could use a bow in close combat.”

“Neither do I...”

 

 

**TA 3018, May**

 

**Balian's and Sibylla's room**

 

The two blacksmiths looked at the plans the bow maker had given them one last time, before they started making their own. They were absolutely not sure if they could actually make it work, but they had to try. It was especially depressing to see one of your lookalikes / quintuplet brothers brooding like Paris did. It gave them the feeling they should be moping too.

And Will had enough things to be depressed about without Paris' help. Elizabeth had started to make allusions to something he'd be hiding from her, that she'd rather hear it from him than learn it in another situation... But he wasn't going to burden her with the knowledge of his fate. Never.

As for Balian... he was too caring not to help the young man. And he felt a bit sorry for Paris too: all of the prince's lookalikes were dangerous fighters, unlike him. Legolas was as good with his hunting knives as with his bow, William was simply deadly talented with his blade, Brian fought like a beast when he wanted, and Balian himself was able to take multiples opponents at a time. Paris, with his archery skills, could only do support combat.

“Do you think the elven smiths would make us some of that glowing metal?”

“The one which shines blue when orcs are near?”

“That one.”

“I see no reason not to ask.”

If they could make that bow for Paris, and if they managed to train him as was needed, maybe the young man could let go of his shame?

 

 

**TA 3018, June**

 

**Elrond's study**

 

Cassandra and the elven lord were speaking quietly when it happened.

Suddenly the young woman was taken by a violently coughing fit. The Half-elven tensed, and tried to pat her on the back, but she raised a hand and stopped his attempt. She was blinking furiously, unknown images invading her vision, and it didn't take her, or him for the matter, long to understand what was going on. The half-elf seized a piece of paper and a pen, waiting for it to finally come.

Half a minute passed like that, and they almost thought it was only a false alert, but Cassandra coughed worse than before, and it was here.

In a raspy voice, as her mind struggled with the dark intents of Sauron, the princess spoke. And Elrond copied the possible prophecy.

“ _Riding on a path_

_Nines shadows of wrath,_

_East, South, West and North,_

_Searching for what's worth,_

_Heading for the Shire_

_Not to know His ire.”_

There was a long silence after that, as Elrond tried to understand what it all could imply. But Cassandra coughed one last time, and he handed her a glass of water.

“Will you be alright?”

The trojan princess gave him a wan, but honest, smile.

“He didn't notice me, no, and I have to thank... you for that Lord Elrond. Last time, it was a dream, so I... wasn't conscious, but if this one had happened without... your guidance, I'd...”

Her gaze flickered to the piece of paper where her words had been copied. The elven lord handed it to her, and watched silently as she read it.

“I suppose the Shire is an area of some... sort?”

“It is. And the nine shadows can only be the Nazgûl. Whatever it is they are looking for, it cannot be good news... Do you know if it was an intent, or Him thinking of what is currently happening?”

Cassandra winced, and took another gulp of water, before answering.

“I can't tell for sure, but I don't think it's... already happening. And the 'Shire' part wasn't like the rest,... as if Sauron wasn't yet...completely aware it is the location he is looking for. A... part of him knows, be he isn't conscious of it... Somehow.”

Elrond frowned, trying to understand that too, but as for the rest, it was too vague to really do anything with it. Moreover, if Cassandra was almost fluent in Westron now it didn't mean she was perfect either. Maybe she couldn't relay the exact meaning in the Common Speech.

“I'll send a word to the rangers who are guarding the Shire...”

Both of the clairvoyants had a feeling it would not suffice to counter whatever the Enemy and the Nazgûl were planning to do in the Shire.

 

 

**TA 3018, July**

 

**The training fields**

 

Paris arrived early that morning, wondering what it was about. Odysseus and James had stopped hoping for his skills to get better, he just knew it. Now he was training only twice a week, to hone his reflexes only, not that it wasn't important, but still.

The prince of Troy knew he had become somewhat passable a fighter, but it didn't mean he would ever be able to be truly brave. He could hold his own for a little time, if he ever was attacked, but that was all. He'd never be Hector. He'd never compensate the death he had caused.

So he really didn't know why he was here, when there was nothing he could really do here. It wasn't as if training more would do him any good.

The young man turned to look at the rising sun, contemplative of what his life had become since he was in this Age... No, actually, since the war he had started. He didn't really have a goal, now, he wasn't sure why he was alive... Why it mattered, all that. Helen was still in his original Time, and he wasn't sure he'd ever get back there. He didn't even have his love left.

Paris sort of sneered at himself.

“You really ought to stop brooding like that, child.”

The voice sounded oddly like his own, and the young prince immediately knew who had just talked... Or at least, he could guess it was either William or Balian. Legolas wasn't in Imladris, and he sounded just a tad more... melodic, he guessed. And Brian sounded more hoarse, more spent, and wasn't here either. William, Balian and himself, on the other hand, could only be distinguished by their tone. The first one sounded a bit cold, when he wasn't with Elizabeth Swann, and the other was always calm, quiet. Paris, him, tended to be sure of himself back in time... and gloomy lately.

He spun on his heels, and was faced with his two lookalikes holding... a bow?

Paris refrained a snort, as he looked at Will Turner. The man was the same age as he was! Maybe younger, actually...

Before anything unpleasant could be said, Balian's quiet voice interrupted the tension.

“Take a look, Paris.”

And the blacksmith handed him the bow.

“We worked hard on this. But no one had ever done... that, I suppose, with a bow, so we need you to... test it so we can see if something is wrong with it. If it works, in fact.”

Paris blinked, and looked back at the short bow in his hands. He hadn't exactly taken the time to observe...

Right, now he saw why they were asking his opinion on it. It was definitely not a normal bow. He wasn't even sure it would be efficient, and he certainly had no idea why they had made it like that in the first place.

The bow itself was fairly normal, but what mattered was more what the two blacksmiths had added to it, or changed to adapt with the additions. Indeed, the two ends of the bow were taken in some sort of metal contraptions. It wasn't quite complicated, but Paris felt it was just unnecessary.

“What's that, exactly?”

Will shrugged.

“First impressions first, please.”

“Well, if you ask... It largely doubles the weight, and I frankly have no idea what you want me to do with it. Moreover, I'm used to long bows, not short bows.”

The blacksmiths shared a look, and William smirked a bit.

“Try to shoot an arrow, despite the added weight, please, and then tell us if it's really a problem. If it is only a matter of being used to it, you can train.”

A doubtful look on his face, the prince of Troy aimed at a practice target not too far away. The first arrow embedded itself in the outer circle, and Paris pulled a bit of a face. The second arrow went right in the middle of the same target, while the third one took the next target perfectly.

Paris turned back to look at his lookalikes.

“It could be worse, but it only works because I'm good at it. I'm not certain... anyone could adjust to the changes so easily.”

“Good thing this one is for you only, then. Do you think you could bear the weight if you spent enough time getting used to it?”

“Of course. But it doesn't tell me why you added the metal things... Or why I can't simply use a normal bow?”

William smiled, and Balian took a step back. Paris watched, confused, as the first one drew his sword and fell into fighting position. The latter one pointed at the bow.

“You want to be capable in close combat, don't you? Take a look at the edges of the 'metal things'.”

Paris then noticed the edges were sharps. Blades, really.

“You've got no talent at sword fighting, Paris, and taking a sword alongside your bow would be a waste, given your skills; you can only defend, and can't attack. But Will and I wondered what would happen if you could use your usual weapon as a defense too. That way, if an enemy gets too close to you and land a blow, you can still ward them off with the metallic parts. Reason why it's a short bow, and not a long bow, by the way. And we added the sharps edges, if you manage to land a blow too. Once the one who attacked you is down, you can go back to shooting arrows, and that without losing time switching weapons.”

Paris strengthened his grip on the bow, wondering if he could really do that.

“Obviously, it's a trial product, so it might not be perfect yet. In fact, it might not work at all. But we thought we had to try.”

“Now, let's try this...”

Paris' eyes shot right back from Balian and onto Will, as he realized why exactly the man had fallen into a fighting stance before. A reassuring smile was on the man's lips, and for some reason, it did the very contrary from reassuring him to the prince, who paled at the sight. William Turner was so not someone he was willing, or ready, to take on, even if the blacksmith would certainly go easy on him. Even if it was supposed to be a testing session for the bow, Paris was certain he would get crushed no matter what...

 

 

**A room**

 

No one had seen Balian, Will or Paris of the whole morning, and Elizabeth was beginning to think they had simply disappeared of the elven city. There was one elf, true, who thought she might have seen the two blacksmiths in the early hours of the morning, on their way to the training fields, but they weren't there anymore. Elizabeth knew: she had spent two whole hours honing her own skills against a few elves, and Odysseus and James too.

Now the guests of Lord Elrond were all resting, after a pleasant meal, in a large room near the Hall of Fire. Even the king of Ithaca and the commodore had agreed to come, and they were speaking together, with Lord Glorfindel and a few others elves too. Lord Elrond had given the news, during the meal, about their possible return to their 'home', in other words, to their respective Ages. It seemed that return was still far away.

Arwen and Sibylla joined Elizabeth and Cassandra around a low table.

The trojan princess looked perfectly fine, now that she dwelled in Elrond's realm, the other females couldn't help to notice with joy. Apparently, here Sauron couldn't reach her at all.

But this day, it was Cassandra's turn to worry about one of her friends.

Elizabeth was growing more and more moody, as the time passed, and Will refused to tell her what wasn't right with him. Or with her, for all she knew.

The princess sent a desperate look at Arwen and Sibylla. No matter what she tried, Elizabeth would just fall back into despair. Comforting worked only so many times, and even a change of subject didn't last long. There was always something getting the young woman back to thinking about her loved one. A word he had said lately, a color that reminded her of him...

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Will was always there, even when he wasn't. He was trying his hardest for her not to be hurt from what he knew of her future, but it was destroying her. And Elizabeth couldn't help but wonder, if perhaps he didn't know her so well, that he believed she wouldnt be able to bear the future? Because if it wasn't the case, then it meant the future was worse than anything she could imagine, that it was something that even this pain she was feeling at him keeping it from her, was worth not saying the pain they would go through later on.

That pain Will had already experienced, and he wouldn't tell her about.

Arwen sat next to the young woman, and took both her hands in her own.

“Elizabeth, why don't you tell us about your love, like we did?”

The blond woman smiled faintly at the proposition.

“A tale, eh? I suppose I could do that...”

She leaned back on the couch she was occupying, and passed a hand in her hair.

“It all started on a ship.”

The conversations around them slowly came to a stop, and most of the people in the room moved closer to hear of this tale. The elves especially had been taken in by the simple mention of a ship.

Elizabeth wasn't paying attention to the silence, though, and she continued talking without waiting for an audience.

“Once upon a time, a daughter and a father sailed away from their country. The father had been appointed as a governor for his king, for an island far away from home. The daughter was only a child, but she was fascinated by the ocean, and she enjoyed every minute of the journey.”

A few people smiled at that, while Elizabeth recalled the time she had spent on the _Dauntless_ , long, long ago it semeed. James sat on the opposite side of the low table, gone into recollections too.

“Then one day the fog on the ocean was so dense it seemed to be the night, the daughter saw a boy on a piece of wreckage. Soon the fog revealed a sinking ship, and the sailors only managed to save the boy. The daughter also saw another ship sailing away, with black sails and a skull for its colors, but no one else did witness it.”

There she looked at the commodore, lieutenant at the time, who had gone white as he finally realized that the _Black Pearl_ had been there, just next to the _Dauntless_ ' guns, that day... But maybe it was for the best, considering the cursed ship would not have been defeated anyway.

“The daughter took care of the boy, and then they lived in the same city, but without ever really talking for the next eight years. He was an orphan, and she was the governor's daughter. Her father already hoped she would marry the newly appointed commodore...”

“And I can assure you the commodore hoped the very same thing, for he loved the young woman dearly.”

Elizabeth gave the said commodore an apologetic nod, but the man didn't look vexed anymore by her refusal. He had moved past it, and he knew Turner's love for Elizabeth was genuine...

Though he wasn't impressed with the way the young man was showing it lately. Maybe he'd have to talk to Turner at some point. To find out what it was that the blacksmith was trying to keep away from the Miss.

“Not long after that, a pirate ship with black sails and a crew of cursed men raided the city, taking away the young woman, thinking she was someone else. The commodore began an operation to get her back, but the boy, who had grown into a skilled blacksmith, couldn't wait.”

A nostalgic smile came onto Elizabeth's face. No matter the danger of these times, everything had been so simple, at the time. Barbossa was the villain, Jack the shifty crook, Will the brave and bashful lover, and James the strick pretendant. No Beckett hiding behind the power of the crown and of tthe East Indian Company, no sudden change of allegiance, except from Jack, but well, Jack was Jack, and no secrets.

“The blacksmith freed a shifty pirate who could lead him to the pirate ship, and to his beloved, and together the blacksmith and the pirate stole a ship from the commodore, and sailed away. A lot of adventures happened, it was revealed that the blacksmith was the one the pirates needed to lift their curse, and in the end the villain died, while the daughter and the blacksmith stood together to protect the pirate who had helped them despite his profession, from the commodore.”

Many eyes glanced to James, who was scowling at that last sentence.

“Yes, and that is what got us all in the troubles we knew after that. I should have had Sparrow hanged nonetheless.”

Elizabeth gave him a crooked smile.

“You don't hate him that much.”

James didn't answer that, strangely.

“That was the story of how the boy and the girl ended up promised to each other. There is more, of course, but let's just say it didn't end so simply. They were accused, alongside the commodore, of having let a pirate escape, and they had to run away, fight for their freedom, against a greedy lord and a traitor to his duty who had usurped his control over the seas. For me, the story stopped not long after the commodore was stabbed in the stomach and left to die, and just before the final battle.”

James grabbed his tunic just above the scar he would always keep, at the reminder, and a few faces turned to look at him, just a second, before looking away once more.

In a whisper, Elizabeth added this:

“But I don't know where the story ends for Will...”

If someone else than Sibylla, Arwen and Cassandra heard that, they had the decency not to ask about it.

 

 

**Eriador**

**Bree --- The _Prancing Pony_**

 

Anamaria nudged her friend discreetly.

“Brian.”

“And so the evil queen...”

Mark winced, looking around, and seeing only hobbits and young children, all sitting on the very floor, around the detective. The midgets, sorry, otherwise small people, seemed all taken in the fairy tale that was being told to them. Mark had to admit, he had never heard that one. Neither had he heard the precedings, for the matter. He could understand why the happy-go-lucky hobbits and children were so enthralled, it wasn't often that an all new fairy tale appeared out of nowhere.

And the storyteller was good, very good. That story with the Big Bad Wolf and the Little Red Riding Hood had been, reality problems put aside, it was a fairy tale, after all, said with just the right thrill. And Mark was pretty sure one of the boys had pissed himself at some point.

But it wasn't the point.

“Epkeen.”

“...And happily ever after.”

Brian turned around, and squinted his eyes at his colleague.

“What?”

“Someone wishes to speak with you.”

“I was busy.”

Mark and Anamaria shared a look, raised both eyebrows, and looked back at the man.

“Storytelling?”

Brian snorted, and gestured to his audience, who was now leaving in search of something interesting to do. Story time was over.

“Try to interrupt storytelling and to keep them from hearing the end of a story, and you will know all nine circles of Hell. I am a father, I know what I'm talking about.”

Mark didn't ask about that Hell thing. Sometimes Brian said things like that, and sometimes Anamaria knew what it was about, sometimes she didn't. The city guard supposed it was something well known where his colleagues came from.

Brian stood up, dusting his pants as he did so, and looked back questioningly at Mark and Anamaria.

“So? Who wanted to speak with me?”

The black woman gave him a pointed look, and the detective grew instantly suspicious.

“With both of us, actually.”

“Ah. Did Strider come back into town?”

“Exactly.”

The man clasped a hand onto Mark's shoulder, and bid him goodbye. The younger man glanced at the door of the inn, where a man with a long mantle was waiting for his two friends, his face hidden by a large hood.

“You should be careful about the people you're seen with.”

Brian arched an eyebrow.

“What is it, Mark? Afraid of rangers?”

The guard said nothing for his defense. The rangers were simply distrusted in Bree, and it had been so for a long time. Mark wasn't really one to judge on rumors, but if he didn't condemn the rangers like Strider as a result, it didn't mean he would trust the man either.

“I'm just saying, there are people who could be... interested by the acquaintances you two keep.”

Brian shrugged it off, but Anamaria could see the way his eyes scanned the inn. The detective was aware of the prying eyes and ears on them, there was no doubt about it.

After all, the two were strangers in Bree, even if they worked for the city guards, and had been there for a few months already.

“Good night, Mark.”

The two time travelers headed out, after having paid Butterbur, who praised Brian for his storytelling prowess. The detective tipped an imaginary hat at the owner with a crooked smile, and Anamaria stiffled a laugh.

Finally they reached the door.

They stepped out of the _Prancing Pony_ , followed by another shadow than their own. In the dark of the evening, the three of them walked to an empty alley, barely noticed by the people they crossed path with.

Out of sight, the ranger pushed off his hood, and the two others were greeted by the familiar, if a bit filthy, face of Strider.

Anamaria was suddenly reminded of the filth that Jack could muster, when he refused to take a bath for a whole month, which happened more often than necessary. Strider looked only a bit better off, and she hoped his last months hadn't been as terrible as his outfit and face seemed to indicate.

Unlike Jack, Strider wasn't doing this for fear of a bath; speaking of which, it was kind of ironic how the great pirate Jack Sparrow, claiming freedom from the sea, could be afraid of water, when it was put together with soap...

Anyway.

“Pleased to see you didn't go and got yourself killed.”

The ranger winced at Brian's statement, knowing it was all too true.

“What about you two? I heard some... interesting tales about the two strangers in the guard of the city.”

The detective winced a bit too, with a muttered “Touché.”, while Anamaria smirked.

“If it's about me getting rid of idiots, I have to say they were being rude. If it's about Brian's storytelling sessions, he has no excuses.”

Brian rolled his eyes, and soon enough, they were talking about the growing troubles. Strider asked them if anything really out of the ordinary had happened since he had left, but no, it was only getting worse on the long term, no great incidents.

“People get used to it after a time, even, and they don't really question the rising chaos more than they'd do if it was a one time thing.”

“I can see that happening...”

Strider kept quiet for half a minute, a thoughtful look on his face. The silence was growing uncomfortable as the night was becoming darker. Brian and Anamaria were almost jumping at every little noise, pretty certain a bad guy would pop out of nowhere soon, or that maybe they were already here, listening in on their conversation.

Anamaria wasn't used to this level of paranoia, unlike Brian, considering that losing both his friends in a matter of days, and generally, working for the police, had not helped his low trust in people. For him, it was as simple as breathing; bad guys were everywhere, only, well hidden. For her, it was different; she came from a place where bad guys were everywhere, but visible, and often they had a softer side, well hidden, that one.

Brian gave the impression he trusted easily, when it was the very contrary: there always was a limit to his trust. Anamaria was openly guarded, but once she had offered her trust, it was given, and never taken back.

The young woman wasn't used to hidden evils.

Strider sighed, and after having checked they were truly alone one last time, he spoke quietly.

“If in the next month a hobbit, Mister Underhill from the Shire, came by Bree, and I wasn't around for some reason, could I ask you to guide him to Imladris?”

“We barely know the way, Strider...”

“Do not worry, I would catch up with you in little time, and if I cannot... Another ranger would come to you. It is only that the hobbit in question, and his possible companions, cannot stay in Bree for too long. It would not be safe for them.”

The two time travelers shared an uneasy look, but agreed. Strider seemed relieved, and it worried them, because they felt like he was already considering he could be withheld from his task... Possibly by a grave injury, or worse, maybe by death.

Just as they were about to leave, the ranger added a piece of information which changed the situation quite a lot, and would keep them in that alley a bit longer.

“Of course, this Mister Underhill doesn't know I am expecting him. And he could think you are enemies, if you aren't careful in your way of getting to him.”

 

 

**TA 3018, August**

 

**Mordor**

**Barad-dûr**

 

Sauron looked at the shadow, anger rising in his twisted mind. He had given one task to the Nazgûl. Only one task.

And the Witch King had done what had to be done. The Nazgûl had done brilliantly, even. It couldn't have gone another way, in fact, because to get William Turner without Curumo catching on... Well, it wasn't possible. It didn't mean the Dark Lord was pleased with the state of things. As long as the brothers lived, Elldúath wouldn't be complete. As long as the quintuplets lived, his weapon wouldn't be at its peak.

It had taken him so much time, to create that elven shadow, so much energy, and yet the Valar had managed to sabotage his efforts!

“Where are they?”

The shadow screeched, its voice still damaged.

“Legolas Thranduilion is still in Mirkwood, and Brian Epkeen is currently in Bree. I... cannot sense the three others. They must be in a guarded area. Surely the Half-elven's realm, or in the lands of the Lady of the Light. And our connection is growing fainter. In a few months, I will not be able to tell anymore.”

The fallen Maia gnashed his teeth, and almost stomped out of the room. Elldúath watched the Dark Lord, without saying a word, wishing himself that he could get his hands on the five brothers, and take back what was rightfully his. What they had stolen from him, the very day they had been born.

What the Valar had stolen from him.

What was rightfully his!

The elven shadow wanted his life back. And for that, either he'd need to come into contact with each of them, or they'd have to die.

He wasn't against them dying. It would save him a lot of effort. And it would give him a part of his revenge.

 

 

**Imladris**

 

“Are you certain you wish to do this, Balian?”

The young man smiled lightly at his beloved, and nodded.

“They need another mortal for that mission, and it is time for me to see a bit more of Arda. I won't be gone long, and it is hardly the most dangerous thing I have done in my life. I will be back before long, and alive. Do not worry, Sibylla.”

The former queen of Jerusalem didn't look very convinced, but she understood her husband needed to get out of the peace of the elven realm. She seeked Lord Elrond's confirmation that it wasn't the worst place her husband could be sent to, and the half-elf looked calm.

So she kissed Balian goodbye, and took a step back.

“Come back to me, my love, and then I will know I could trust you word.”

The knight looked amused at that, and put his right hand on the pommel of the sword he had made to replace the Sword of Ibelin, improving it with Will's and the elven smiths' ideas.

“You can trust my word.”

The knight and the nine rangers who were to accompany him rode out of Imladris, and towards Dunland.

Elrond and Sibylla stayed to look at their disappearing form for a time.

Eventually the former queen sighed.

“I suppose I should have seen it coming. But I trust him to come back in one piece. He survived too much already not to come back.”

 

 

**TA 3018, September**

 

**Eriador**

**South-West of Bree – Barrow-downs**

 

Mark stopped his horse in the shadow of a monolith, and yelled for his colleague to hear him.

“Brian, which part of 'city' in 'city guards' don't you understand?!?”

Anamaria joined him just in time to see the other rider of their little group reappear from behind another monolith. The man was definitely not going to stop anytime soon.

The detective barely turned around to shout back at them.

“The whole word, Mark, the whole word!”

And he rode out of sight. Mark winced, about to go after the man, but Anamaria stopped him.

“Forget it, he'll come back once he has him. Brian will simply not let a murderer go, even if the scoundrel is not around the city anymore. A thief, maybe, but a murderer?”

The guard rolled his eyes, and hoped Anamaria was right. As long as Brian didn't go anywhere near the Old Forest... But did Brian know about the Old Forest?

“I told you about the Old Forest, right?”

The look the black woman gave him didn't reassure him one bit.

 


End file.
